Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 


«  9!  to*  far  lantig  to  toif eie«$  mett 
uttfenoton*" 


"He  kissed  the  laughing  children  as  they  clung  to  him" 
"THE  HAPPIEST  TIME,"  PAGE  114. 


Utttle  Stories  of 


New  York 
McClure,  Phillips  &  Co. 

Mcmii 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
McClure,  Phillips  &  Co. 


Copyright,  1896,  by 
S.  S.  McClure  Co. 

Copyright,  1899,  by 
S.  S.  McClure  Co. 

Copyright,  1902,  by 
S.  S.  McClure  Co. 


Published,  October,  1902. 
Reprinted,  November,  1902 


Contents 


PAGE 


Their  Second  Marriage  i 

A  Good  Dinner    ....  23 

The  Strength  of  Ten  ...  45 
In  the  Reign  of  Quintilia  .  .  73 

The  Happiest  Time  93 

In  the  Married  Quarters  .  .  115 
Mrs.  Atwood's  Outer  Raiment  .  .139 

Fairy  Gold 159 

A  Matrimonial  Episode  .  .  .181 
Not  a  Sad  Story  .  .  .  .  199 
Wings 225 


Their  Second  Marriage 


Their  Second  Marriage 


d°  y°u  know  what 

Thursday  will  be?" 

"Thursday?    The  twenty-first." 

"Yes,  and  what  will  the  twenty-first  be  ?" 

"Thursday." 

"Oh,  Henry!"  Pretty  Mrs.  Waring  looked 
tragically  across  the  breakfast-table  at  her  hus- 
band, or  rather  at  the  newspaper  that  screened 
him  completely  from  her  view.  "Do  put  down 
that  paper  for  a  moment.  I  never  get  a  chance 
to  speak  to  you  any  more  in  the  morning,  and 
I  have  to  spend  the  whole  day  alone.  Do  you 
really  mean  to  say  that  you  don't  know  what 
the  twenty-first  is  ?" 

"The  twenty-first?"  Mr.  Waring  met  his 
wife's  gaze  blankly  as  he  hurriedly  swallowed 
his  coffee,  and  then  furtively  observed  the 
hands  of  the  watch  that  lay  open  on  the  table 
before  him.  "What  do  you  mean,  Doll?  Say 
it  quickly,  for  I've  got  to  go." 

"Henry,  have  you  forgotten  that  it  is  the  an- 
niversary of  our  wedding?" 

"Oh  —  oh!"  said  Mr.  Waring,  a  light  dawn- 

ing on  him,  and  a  suspicious  note  of  relief  per- 

ceptible in  his  voice.     He  rose  from  his  chair 

as  he  spoke.    "Forgotten  that?  Why,  of  course 

[3] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

not;  the  day  I  was  married  to  the  sweetest  girl 
in  the  world !  How  lovely  you  did  look,  to  be 
sure,  and  what  a  lucky  fellow  I  was  to  get  you ! 
Can  you  just  help  me  on  with  my  overcoat, 
dear?  The  lining  of  this  sleeve —  Yes,  I 
know  you  haven't  had  time  to  mend  it  yet. 
Now,  Doll,  I  would  like  to  stand  here  and  kiss 
you  all  day,  but  the  train  is  whistling  across  the 
bridge.  By,  by,  dear;  take  good  care  of  your- 
self and  the  babies!" 

His  wife  watched  him  fondly  as  he  walked 
down  the  path  to  the  gate,  strong,  alert,  and 
masculine,  and  waved  her  hand  as  he  looked 
back  and  took  off  his  hat  to  her  with  a  smile 
before  joining  another  man  hurrying  for  the 
train.  She  could  see  him  almost  visibly  shut 
out  the  little  cottage  from  his  mind  as  he 
turned  away  from  it,  and  set  his  shoulders 
squarely,  as  if  to  brace  himself  for  entering  the 
strenuous  whirl  of  business  life  that  makes  up 
the  larger,  waking  half  of  a  man's  life,  and  in 
which  wife  and  children  have  but  a  sub-exist- 
ence. But  this  morning  Mrs.  Waring  did  not 
feel  the  chill  depression  that  sometimes  stole 
over  her  as  she  saw  him  disappear;  her  mind 
was  too  occupied  with  his  words,  which,  few 
and^  perfunctory  as  they  might  sound  to  the  un- 
initiated, carried  deepest  meaning  to  her  ears. 
Her  ardent  mind  conjured  up  the  picture  of  the 
girl  in  bridal  attire  who  had  stood  beside  her 
(4] 


Their  Second  Marriage 


lover  on  their  marriage-day,  and  credited  him 
with  the  same  wealth  of  imagining  and  all  the 
tender  sentiment  connected  with  it.  She  fell 
into  a  delightful  dream  of  the  romanti*  past, 
from  which  she  was  only  aroused  by  the  patter 
of  little  feet  above  and  the  reminder  that  she 
was  needed  in  the  nursery. 

Mrs.  Waring  had,  unknown  to  her  husband, 
set  her  mind  for  some  months  past  on  a  cele- 
bration of  her  wedding  anniversary,  the  ob- 
servance of  which  had  lapsed,  for  one  reason 
or  another,  for  a  couple  of  years;  but  she  had 
said  to  herself  firmly  that  Henry  must  propose 
it,  and  not  leave  it  all  to  her.  If  she  had  to 
plan  it  out  as  she  had  their  moving  into  the 
country,  or  their  trip  to  the  seashore  last  sum- 
mer, or  the  Christmas  party  for  the  babies — 
nay,  if  she  even  had  to  suggest  it  to  him,  it 
would  be  valueless  to  her.  If  he  did  not  love 
her  enough,  if  he  did  not  have  her  happiness 
enough  at  heart  to  think  of  pleasing  her  with- 
out being  reminded  of  it — why,  she  would  have 
no  celebration.  It  was  entirely  against  her 
resolution  that  she  had  spoken  of  it  this  morn- 
ing, but  she  knew  in  her  soul  that  he  never 
would  remember  if  she  did  not,  and  she  could 
only  think  that,  the  date  once  recalled,  the  rest 
must  follow. 

She  herself  thought  of  nothing  else  all  day. 
She  told  little  Henry  all  about  mamma's  pretty 
[5] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

wedding  "once  upon  a  time,"  when  mamma 
wore  a  beautiful  white  dress  with  a  long  white 
veil,  and  walked  up  the  aisle  in  church  when 
the  organ  played,  and  the  chancel  was  full  of 
roses  and  palms;  and  although  the  child  only 
asked  innocently  if  there  were  any  bears  or 
lions  there,  her  small  nurse-maid,  Beesy,  was 
deeply  though  respectfully  interested,  and  Mrs. 
Waring  could  not  help  being  secretly  conscious 
that,  while  apparently  engaged  with  her  infant 
audience,  she  was  in  reality  playing  to  the  gal- 
lery. She  even  got  out  her  wedding  jewels  to 
hang  around  baby  Marjorie's  neck,  to  provoke 
Beesy's  awestricken  admiration. 

It  would  have  taken  close  study  of  the  influ- 
ences of  the  past  year  to  determine  why  this 
particular  wedding  anniversary  should  have  as- 
sumed such  prominence  in  young  Mrs.  War- 
ing's  mind.  Both  she  and  her  husband  had 
been  surprised  to  find  that,  in  face  of  all  precon- 
ceived opinions,  they  had  not  settled  down  into 
the  cool,  platonic  friendship  held  up  to  them 
as  the  ultimate  good  of  all  wedded  pairs,  but 
were  still  honestly  and  sincerely  in  love  with 
each  other.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this  fact,  there 
had  lately  been  a  certain  strain.  After  all  the 
first  things  are  over — the  first  year,  which  is 
seldom  the  crucial  one  in  spite  of  its  conven- 
tional aspect  in  that  light;  after  the  first  boy, 
and  the  first  girl,  and  the  first  venture  at  house- 
[6] 


Their  Second  Marriage 


keeping  in  the  suburbs — there  comes  a  long 
course  of  secondary  living  that  tugs  with  its 
chain  at  character  and  sometimes  pulls  it  sharp- 
ly from  its  stanchions. 

Mrs.  Waring  greeted  her  husband  that  night 
with  a  countenance  of  soulful  meaning,  and 
eyes  that  were  uplifted  to  his  in  a  fervid  solem- 
nity that  ought  to  have  warned  any  man  of 
peril  ahead.  She  had  a  delightful  sensation 
that  their  most  commonplace  utterances  were 
fraught  with  repressed  feeling,  and  when  he 
finally  said  to  her,  after  dinner,  as  they  sat  by 
the  little  wood-fire  together,  "I've  a  surprise 
for  you,  Doll,"  her  heart  gave  a  joyous  bound, 
and  she  felt  how  truly  he  had  justified  her 
thought  of  him. 

''What  is  it,  Henry?" 

"Mother  and  Aunt  Eliza  and  Mary  Apple- 
ton  and  Nan  are  coming  here  to  lunch  day 
after  to-morrow — Thursday.  Of  course  I  said 
you'd  be  delighted.  It's  all  right,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Coming  on  Thursday!" 

"Yes.  That  isn't  a  washing  day  or  a  clean- 
ing day,  is  it?" 

"No." 

Mr.  Waring  looked  confounded. 

"You've  spoken  so  many  times  of  their  not 
coming  out  in  the  whole  year  we've  lived  here, 
I  thought  you'd  be  glad,  Doll." 

"Henry,  why  do  you  never  call  me  Ethel 
[71 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

any  more?  You  used  to  say  it  was  the  most 
beautiful  name  in  the  world,  and  now  you  seem 
to  forget  that  I  have  any  name.  Oh,  if  you 
knew  how  sick  I  get  of  always  being  called 
Doll!  Such  a  horrid,  common-sounding 
thing!" 

"Why,  Doll—" 

"There  it  is  again!" 

"Ethel,  my  dear  girl,  don't  cry.  If  I  had 
had  the  dimmest  idea —  I  seem  always  fated 
to  do  the  wrong  thing  lately.  Why  can't  you 
tell  me  sometimes  what  you're  driving  at?  If 
you  don't  want  my  mother  and  the  girls,  just 
say  so.  I  can  send  them  word  to-morrow, 
and—" 

"If  you  do!"  Mrs.  Waring  stood  up  trag- 
ically with  one  hand  on  her  husband's  shoulder. 
"I  wouldn't  have  such  a  thing  happen  for 
worlds."  She  gave  a  little  gasp  of  horror  at 
the  thought.  "But,  oh,  Henry,  you  nearly  kill 
me  sometimes!  No,  if  you  don't  know  why 
this  time,  I  shall  not  tell  you  again."  She 
leaned  her  head  against  her  husband  as  if  ex- 
hausted, and  submitted  to  be  drawn  down  be- 
side him  once  more.  "You  never  think  of  me 
any  more." 

"But  I  do  think  of  you,  sweetheart."    He 

patted  her  head  persuasively.    "Lots  of  times, 

when  you  don't  know  it.    If  you'd  only  tell  me 

what  you  want,  dear.    I'm  such  a  bad  guesser. 

18] 


Their  Second  Marriage 


And  I  know  you  really  do  wish  to  see  my  moth- 
er and  show  her  the  children." 

"It's  the  fourth  time  she  has  sent  word  that 
she  was  coming,"  said  his  wife  pensively.  She 
was  already  forecasting  the  plan  of  action  to 
be  pursued  in  making  ready  for  the  expected 
guests. 

When  you  are  a  young  housekeeper  with  in- 
fants and  only  a  nurse-maid  besides  the  cook, 
a  day's  company  means  the  revolutionizing  of 
the  entire  domestic  machinery.  In  the  city  peo- 
ple carelessly  come  and  go,  and  the  household 
of  the  entertainer  is  put  to  no  special  prepara- 
tion for  them,  but  it  is  an  unwritten  law  in  the 
country  that  before  the  advent  of  the  seldom 
guest  "to  spend  the  day"  the  entire  domicile 
must  be  swept  and  garnished  from  top  to 
bottom. 

As  Ethel  Waring  rubbed  and  polished  and 
dusted  she  could  but  remember  that  she  had 
gone  through  the  process  of  cleaning  three 
times  before  for  Henry's  mother,  who  had  al- 
ways hitherto  disappointed  her.  She  prided 
herself  on  being  really  fond  of  her  mother-in- 
law,  and  his  sister  Nan  had  been  her  particular 
friend,  but  Aunt  Eliza  and  Mary  Appleton  were 
the  kind  of  people — well,  the  kind  of  people 
that  belonged  to  her  husband's  family,  and  they 
always  saw  everything  around  the  house.  She 
cleaned  now  for  the  fourth  time  magnanimous- 
[9] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

ly.  Since  she  had  moved  into  the  country,  and 
went  to  and  from  the  city  two  or  three  times  a 
week,  it  had  seemed  odd  to  have  her  friends 
and  relatives  look  upon  the  half-hour's  jour- 
ney in  train  and  ferry-boat  as  a  mighty  under- 
taking, to  be  planned  for  weeks  ahead;  and  al- 
though she  had  been  in  her  cottage  over  a  year, 
she  had  not  yet  become  used  to  this  point  of 
view,  and  still  expected  people  to  come  after 
they  had  promised  to. 

There  was  something  grimly  sacrificial  in 
her  preparations  now  that  upheld  her  in  her 
disappointment;  her  husband  could  not  remem- 
ber her  pleasure,  but  she  was  working  her  fin- 
gers off  for  his  people.  Yes,  she  had  nothing 
to  look  forward  to  but  neglect — and  the  worst 
of  it  was  that  he  would  not  even  know  that  he 
was  neglecting  her. 

Perhaps,  however,  he  did  remember  after 
all.  She  watched  every  word  and  gesture  of 
his  up  to  the  very  morning  of  their  anniversary. 
He  was  so  happy  and  merry  and  affectionate  in 
his  efforts  to  win  her  to  smiles  that  she  could 
hardly  withstand  the  infectiousness  of  it.  But 
she  felt  after  his  cheerful  good-by  as  if  the 
tragedy  of  her  future  years  had  begun. 

There  was,  indeed,  no  time  for  the  luxury  of 

quiet  wretchedness.    The  two  children  had  to 

be  bathed  and  put  to  bed  for  the  morning  nap, 

which  both  she  and  Beesy  prayed  might  be  a 

[10] 


Their  Second  Marriage 


long  one,  so  that  the  last  clearing  up  might  be 
done,  and  the  table  set,  and  the  salad-dressing 
made,  and  the  cream  whipped  for  the  jelly,  and 
she  herself  dressed  and  in  the  drawing-room 
before  twelve  o'clock. 

There  was  the  usual  panic  when  the  butcher 
was  late  with  the  chickens,  and  the  discovery 
was  made  that  the  green  grocer  had  not  brought 
what  was  ordered,  and  the  usual  hurried  send- 
ing forth  of  Beesy  to  the  village  at  the  last  mo- 
ment for  the  missing  lettuce,  only  to  be  told 
that  "there  was  none  in  town  this  day" — a  fact 
that  smites  the  suburban  housekeeper  like  a 
blow.  But  finally  everything  was  ready,  the 
table  set  to  perfection,  the  drawing-room  cur- 
tains drawn  at  their  most  effective  angle,  the 
logs  burning  on  the  andirons,  the  chairs  set 
most  cozily,  and  the  vase  of  jonquils  with  their 
long,  green  stalks  showing  through  the  clear 
glass,  giving  a  lovely  brightness  to  the  room  in 
their  hint  of  approaching  spring.  The  babies, 
sweet  and  fresh,  in  the  whitest  of  frocks,  and 
hair  curled  in  little  damp  rings,  ran  up  and 
down  and  prattled  beside  the  charmingly 
dressed,  pretty  mother,  who  sat  with  her  em- 
broidery in  hand  and  who  could  not  help  feel- 
ing somewhat  of  a  glow  of  satisfaction  through 
her  sadness.  But  after  Harry  had  peeped  out 
from  the  curtains  some  twenty  times  to  see  if 
grandmamma  was  coming,  and  little  Marjorie 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

had  fallen  down  and  raised  a  large  bump  on  her 
forehead,  and  the  one-o'clock  train  had  come 
in,  there  was  a  certain  change  in  the  situation. 
The  cook  sent  up  word  should  she  put  on  the 
oysters,  and  Mrs.  Waring  answered  no,  to  wait 
until  the  next  train,  although  that  did  not  ar- 
rive until  two  o'clock.  She  pretended  that  her 
guests  had  missed  the  earlier  train,  but  in  her 
soul  she  felt  the  cold  chill  of  certainty  that  they 
would  not  come. 

As  she  sat  eating  her  luncheon  afterward  in 
solitary  state,  and  wishing  that  she  knew  any 
of  her  neighbors  well  enough  to  ask  them  to 
join  her,  she  received  a  belated  telegram  from 
her  husband :  "Nan  says  party  postponed;  Aunt 
Eliza  has  headache."  She  read  it,  and  cast  it 
from  her  scornfully. 

And  this  was  her  wedding-day,  passed  in  un- 
necessary work,  futile  preparation  for  people 
who  didn't  care  a  scrap  for  her !  Oh,  if  she  had 
only  been  going  in  town  that  afternoon,  as  she 
had  dreamed  of  doing,  to  have  a  little  dinner 
with  Henry  at  the  Waldorf,  or  Sherry's,  or  the 
St.  Denis  even— and  go  to  a  play  afterward — 
she  didn't  care  where — and  have  just  their  own 
little  happy  foolish  time  over  it  all !  She  had 
hardly  been  anywhere  since  little  Marjorie 
was  born. 

She  was  surprised  to  have  a  caller  in  the 
afternoon,  a  Mrs.  Livermore.  The  visitor  was 


Their  Second  Marriage 


a  large,  stout  woman  with  very  blond  hair,  who 
lived  on  the  opposite  corner.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  magnificently  florid  style,  and  sat  in  the 
little  drawing-room  a  large  mass  of  purple  cloth 
and  fur  and  gleaming  jet  spangles,  surmounted 
by  curving  plumes,  that  quite  dwarfed  Mrs. 
Waring's  slender  elegance.  She  apologized 
profusely  for  not  having  called  before,  as  ill- 
ness had  prevented  her  doing  so,  and  sailed  at 
once  smoothly  off  into  a  sea  of  medical  terms, 
giving  such  an  intimate  and  minute  account 
of  the  many  diseases  that  had  ravaged  her  that 
poor  Mrs.  Waring  paled.  The  one  bright  spot 
in  her  existence  seemed  to  have  been  her  hus- 
band, whom  she  described  as  the  most  untiring 
of  nurses. 

"I  really  didn't  know  whether  I'd  find  you 
at  home  this  afternoon  or  not,"  she  said. 
"Your  nurse-girl,  Beesy,  told  my  cook  that 
this  was  the  anniversary  of  your  wedding. 
Willie  and  I  always  used  to  go  off  somewhere 
for  a  little  treat,  but  since  I've  been  such  an 
invalid  I've  had  to  stay  at  home.  But  he 
never  forgets.  What  do  you  think,  Mrs.  War- 
ing, every  Saturday  since  our  marriage,  four- 
teen years  ago,  he  has  brought  me  home  a  box 
of  flowers!  He  always  says,  'Here  are  your 
roses,  Baby' — that's  his  pet  name  for  me.  I 
don't  know  what  I'd  do  if  Willie  wasn't  so 
attentive." 

[13] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"Indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Waring. 

On  her  return  to  the  nursery  she  took  oc- 
casion to  reprove  Beesy  for  gossiping.  Beesy 
was  loud  in  extenuation.  In  a  cottage  one  is 
thrown  in  rather  close  companionship  with 
one's  nurse-maid. 

"Ah,  I  never  said  but  two  words  to  Ellen; 
but  Mrs.  Livermore — there's  nothing  she  does- 
n't find  out.  And  the  way  she  and  Mr.  Liver- 
more  quar'ls !" 

"Why,  she  says  he  is  so  devoted  to  her," 
said  Mrs.  Waring  incautiously.  "He  brings 
her  flowers  every  week."  She  sighed  as  she 
thought  of  the  husband  who  did  not  bring  them 
once  a  year. 

"Him!  Ah,  ma'am,  Ellen  says  they  fights 
like  cat  and  dog,  and  'twas  only  a  week  ago 
a-Monday  the  plates  was  flyin'  that  thick  in 
the  dinin'-room,  Ellen  she  dassent  put  her  head 
in  at  the  door  to  take  away  the  meat.  Ellen 
says  'twould  have  curdled  y'r  blood  to  hear  'em. 
The  neighbors  have  complained  of  'em  in  the 
court.  He  drinks  terrible !" 

"You  must  not  tell  me  these  things,  Beesy," 
said  Mrs.  Waring  with  dignity.  "I  do  not 
wish  to  hear  them.  Come,  Marjorie,  sweetest, 
play  pat-a-cake  with  mamma — this  way,  baby 
darling.  Oh,  Beesy,  there's  the  bell  again !" 

This  time  it  was  a  neighbor  whom  Mrs. 
Waring  had  met  before  and  rather  liked,  a  gen- 
[14] 


Their  Second  Marriage 


tie,  faded,  sympathetic  woman  who  had  ad- 
mired the  children.  Mrs.  Waring  confided 
some  of  the  household  perplexities  to  her,  and 
they  talked  of  the  village  markets  and  com- 
pared notes  on  prices,  gradually  reaching  even 
more  personal  ground.  Mrs.  Waring  finally 
divulged  the  fact  that  this  was  the  anniver- 
sary of  her  wedding,  and  received  her  guest's 
congratulations. 

"I  had  hoped  to  have  celebrated  the  day  in 
town,"  she  added  impulsively,  "but  Mr.  War- 
ing's  business  arrangements  have  prevented." 

"It  must  be  a  real  disappointment  to  you," 
commented  her  visitor  feelingly.  "I  often 
think  how  lonely  you  must  be,  knowing  so  few 
people.  A  man  so  seldom  realizes  what  a  wom- 
an's life  is!  He  goes  off  into  the  busy  world 
every  morning,  little  thinking  of  all  she  must 
endure  throughout  the  day.  I  often  watch  you 
look  after  your  husband  when  he  has  left  you 
in  the  morning;  you  look  so  longingly,  dear.  I 
said  to  Mr.  Morris  just  the  other  day,  'I  do 
wish  Mr.  Waring  would  look  back  just  once 
at  that  sweet  young  wife  of  his.'  Mr.  Morris 
always  turns  at  the  corner  and  waves  his  hand 
to  me;  perhaps  you've  seen  him — dear  fellow !" 

Mrs.  Waring  cooled  suddenly  toward  this 

too  sympathetic  visitor,  who  soon  left,  but  the 

words  had  left  a  secret  sting.     Her  voice  had 

a  tragic  sound  when  she  told  Beesy  that  she 

[is] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

would  order  her  meat  henceforth  from  Ein- 
stein, as  Mrs.  Morris  said  that  his  prices  were 
lower  than  O'Reilly's. 

"Mrs.  Morris,  ma'am !"  caroled  Beesy.  "Ah, 
ma'am,  you  wouldn't  be  after  eatin'  the  kind 
of  stuff  she  does.  It's  not  a  roast  of  beef  that 
does  be  going  in  at  that  house  from  one  week's 
end  to  another — nothin'  but  little  weenty  scraps 
that  wouldn't  keep  a  dog  alive.  Mr.  Morris, 
poor  man,  he's  that  thin  and  wake.  Oh,  'tis 
she  has  all  the  money,  and  she  keeps  him  that 
close !  Ellen  says  'tis  only  a  quart  of  milk  goes 
to  them  for  five  days,  and  nobbut  one  shovelful 
of  coal  allowed  to  be  put  on  the  furnace  at  a 
time,  and  him  with  the  cough  that's  tearing  the 
heart  out  of  him !  Ellen  says — " 

"That  will  do,  Beesy,"  said  Mrs.  Waring 
severely.  The  gossip  of  servants,  the  trivial 
conversation  and  fulsome  pity  of  vulgar  neigh- 
bors, was  this  all  that  was  left  to  her  ? 

She  went  downstairs  again,  and  sat  in  the 
drawing-room,  inside  of  the  window  curtains, 
and  wept.  The  gathering  dusk  seemed  to  pre- 
figure the  gloom  that  was  to  encompass  her 
future  years.  If  people  only  wouldn't  pity  her 
she  might  be  able  to  live;  the  children  would 
love  her  at  any  rate.  Six  years  ago  how  happy 
she  was,  how  dear  his  eyes  looked  when  he 
gave  her  that  first  married  kiss!  She  could 
smell  even  now  the  fragrance  of  the  bride  roses 


Their  Second  Marriage 


that  she  had  held.  She  heard  the  patter  of  the 
children's  feet  overhead,  and  tried  to  wipe 
away  the  blinding  tears. 

A  quick  footstep  on  the  walk  outside  star- 
tled her,  and  the  gate  slammed  to  with  a  loud 
noise.  Could  it  be  possible?  Her  husband 
was  running  up  the  piazza  steps  with  some- 
thing white  in  his  hand — an  enormous  bunch 
of  white  roses.  Another  moment  and  he  was 
by  her  side,  beaming  down  at  her.  Oh,  how 
handsome  he  was ! 

"How  soon  can  you  get  on  your  things,  Doll  ? 
I've  tickets  for  the  opera  to-night — 'Romeo  and 
Juliet' — Emma  Eames  and  Jean  de  Reszke — 
does  that  suit  you  ?" 

"Oh,  Henry!" 

"I've  brought  some  flowers,  and  we'll  make 
a  lark  of  it.  I've  ordered  a  cab  from  the  station 
to  be  here  in  twenty  minutes,  and  we'll  have  to 
dress  and  get  a  bite,  too,  if  we  can.  I  wanted 
to  come  out  earlier,  but  I  wasn't  certain  about 
the  tickets  until  the  last  moment.  We'll  have  a 
little  supper  after  the  opera,  and  take  the  one- 
ten  out.  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

"Oh,  Henry !  I  thought  you  had  forgotten, 
I  thought — "  But  there  was  no  time  to  talk. 

Could  she  ever  forget  that  delightful,  bewil- 
dering, hurried  twenty  minutes?  She  spent 
five  of  them  in  trimming  over  a  hat,  to  the  mas- 
culine creature's  amazement,  her  deft  fingers 
[17] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

pulling  off  bows  and  feathers  and  sticking  them 
on  again  with  lightning  rapidity.  She  ate  a 
sandwich  in  the  intervals  of  dressing  and  giv- 
ing directions  to  Beesy  about  the  babies. 

When  they  finally  whirled  off  in  the  stuffy 
little  cab  to  the  railway  station  they  were  like  a 
couple  of  children  in  their  happy  abandonment 
to  the  expected  pleasure. 

The  opera — had  they  ever  gone  to  any  opera 
before?  How  inconceivably  beautiful  and  bril- 
liant the  house,  the  lights,  the  gay  assemblage 
to  the  erstwhile  dwellers  of  the  suburbs!  To- 
gether they  scanned  the  emblazoned  women  in 
the  boxes,  and  pointed  out  to  each  other  those 
whom  they  recognized.  And  when  Gounod's 
delicious  music  stole  into  their  hearts,  and  Mrs. 
Waring  sat  with  her  bride  roses  in  one  hand, 
and  the  other  tucked  secretly  into  Henry's,  un- 
der cover  of  her  wrap,  was  ever  any  woman 
happier?  Had  ever  any  girl  a  lover  more  de- 
voted or  more  bubbling  over  with  fun  ?  Romeo 
and  Juliet — what  were  they  to  a  real  married 
couple  of  to-day?  Then  the  supper  afterward 
with  the  gay  throng  at  the  Waldorf — the  reck- 
less disregard  of  the  midnight  train — could 
there  be  dizzier  heights  of  revelry  ? 

It  was  when  they  stood  outside  on  the  ferry- 
boat coming  home  that  Mrs.  Waring  spoke  at 
last  the  thought  that  had  lain  nearest  her  heart 
all  the  evening.  They  were  out  alone  in  front, 
[18] 


Their  Second  Marriage 


the  cold  night  wind  blew  refreshingly,  the  dark 
water  plashed  around  them,  and  across  its  black 
expanse  the  colored  lights  gleamed  faintly  from 
the  New  Jersey  shore.  Mrs.  Waring  leaned  a 
little  closer  to  her  husband  as  they  stood  there 
in  the  night  and  the  darkness. 

"Dear,"  she  murmured,  "I  can't  tell  you  how 
lovely  the  evening  has  been;  but  you  know 
what  has  made  it  so  to  me,  that  has  been  mak- 
ing me  so  very  happy  ?  The  opera  and  the  sup- 
per would  have  been  nothing  without  it.  Dar- 
ling, it's  because  you  thought  of  it  all  yourself." 

A  sudden  tension  in  the  arm  on  which  she 
leaned  startled  Mrs.  Waring.  She  bent  for- 
ward to  look  up  into  her  husband's  face,  with 
a  swift  suspicion. 

"Henry?" 

"Well,  Doll." 

"Didn't  you  think  of  it,  yourself?" 

"Nobody  could  have  enjoyed  our  little  fun 
together  more  than  I  have,  you  know  that, 
Doll ;  and  nobody  could  want  to  make  you  any 
happier  than  I  do.  What's  the  use  of  picking 
the  whole  thing  to  pieces  now  and  spoiling  it 
all?" 

"Henry  Waring,  you  haven't  answered  me. 
Did  you  remember  that  this  was  our  wedding- 
day,  or  did  you  not  ?  Who  was  it  told  you  to 
take  me  out  to-night  ?" 

"If  you  will  not  tell  me  these  things  your- 
[19] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

self,  Ethel — it's  mean  of  you,  dear;  it  puts  me 
at  a  disadvantage  when  you  remember  and  I 
don't.  Heaven  knows  that  I  oughtn't  to  for- 
get anything  that  would  give  pleasure  to  you — 
that's  true;  but  I'm  not  mean  on  purpose,  and 
you  are.  You  know —  But  don't  let's  quarrel 
to-night." 

"Quarrel!"  Mrs.  Waring  lifted  her  head 
indignantly.  "As  if  I  wanted  to  quarrel!  Who 
was  it  told  you,  Henry  ?" 

"Well,  Ethel,  if  you  must  know,  Nan  was 
in  the  office  to-day  to  say  they  couldn't  come, 
and  she—" 

"Nan — your  sister  Nan !" 

Like  a  flash  Mrs.  Waring  saw  it  all.  She 
knew  Nan's  impetuous,  whole-souled  way; 
but —  One  of  Henry's  family!  Life  could 
have  no  further  joy  for  her. 

She  looked  at  him  furtively  as  he  stood  be- 
side her  gazing  ruefully  out  across  the  water. 
Were  they  quarreling — would  they  get  to 
throwing  plates  after  a  while?  His  attitude 
was  ludicrously  dejected.  In  spite  of  herself 
and  the  tears  that  had  been  ready  to  well  up  in 
her  eyes  the  moment  before,  a  sudden  sense  of 
the  absurdity  of  it  all  came  over  her,  and  she 
broke  into  a  refreshingly  unexpected  peal  of 
laughter.  Her  husband  stared,  and  then 
laughed,  too,  in  delighted  relief.  "Ah,"  she 
murmured,  with  her  cheek  against  his  coat 

[20] 


Their  Second  Marriage 


sleeve,  "I  suppose  I'll  just  have  to  love  you  as 
you  are !" 

"If  you  only  would,  dear,"  he  assented 
humbly. 

The  lights  on  the  New  Jersey  shore  shone 
brighter  and  brighter  now,  yellow  and  red  and 
green,  casting  their  reflection  on  the  black  lap- 
ping water  below.  The  boat  was  nearing  the 
dock.  All  unbidden  with  the  last  words  had 
come  a  deep  joy,  a  thrill  from  heart  to  heart, 
wonderful  in  its  illuminating  power.  The 
warm  silence  that  followed  was  an  instant  ben- 
ediction to  unrecorded  vows. 

The  chains  clanked  in  the  dock.  As  they 
stepped  across  the  gangplank  toward  the  dark, 
waiting  lines  of  cars  beyond,  he  pressed  her 
hand  in  his  as  he  bent  over  her,  and  whispered 
in  tender  playfulness,  "Shall  we  take  the  train 
for  Washington  or  Philadelphia  ?" 


A  Good  Dinner 


[33] 


A  Good  Dinner 

HE  butcher,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Chauncey  Callender  put 
down  her  half-eaten  muffin  with  a 
gesture  of  despair,  as  she  looked  at  the  tidy, 
white-capped  maid  before  her. 

"Why  does  he  always  come  at  breakfast 
time?  As  if  it  is  possible  to  know  then  what 
one  is  going  to  want  for  the  day!  I'm  sure  I 
can't  think  of  a  thing!  Chauncey,  you  might 
help  me.  I  get  so  tired  planning  the  meals,  and 
it's  very  hard  to  order  for  a  small  family. 
What  would  you  like  for  dinner  to-night?" 

"Roast  peacock,"  said  Mr.  Callender. 

"Would  you  like  a  beefsteak?"  His  wife 
patiently  ignored  the  last  remark,  which  as  a 
stock  answer  to  a  stock  question  had  even 
ceased  to  irritate  her. 

"I  shouldn't  mind  having  it." 

"  'Shouldn't  mind  having  it !'  I'm  asking 
you  if  you  want  it." 

"I  want  anything  that  you  do." 

"Oh,  Chauncey !  You'll  drive  me  crazy-mad 
some  day.  I  wish  you'd  express  a  preference; 
it  would  make  it  so  much  easier  for  me.  Would 
you  like  chicken?  I  know  that  Cadmus  has 
poultry  on  Wednesday." 
[25] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

Mr.  Callender's  expression  became  suddenly 
tinged  with  melancholy.  Although  he  was 
now  metropolitan  in  appearance,  manner,  and 
habit,  his  early  existence  had  been  spent  upon  a 
farm,  where  the  killing  and  eating-up  of  chick- 
ens at  certain  periods  of  the  year  was  an  eco- 
nomic process,  compulsory  upon  the  household. 
A  momentary  sickness  and  distaste  of  life 
seemed  evolved  from  the  recollection  as  he 
answered, 

"I  don't  seem  to  care  much  for  chicken." 

"You  never  do,  and  I  am  so  fond  of  it.  Well, 
chops  then.  Would  you  like  breaded  chops?" 

"We  have  those  almost  every  night,  don't 
we?"  returned  Mr.  Callender  briskly,  under 
the  impression  that  he  was  being  agreeable. 
"When  in  doubt,  have  chops.  Oh,  yes,  I  like 
them  well  enough,  when  they're  not  raw  in 
the  middle,  like  the  last.  But  get  what  you 
want  yourself,  Cynthia,  it  really  doesn't  make 
any  difference  to  me." 

"That's  so  like  you!  Why  don't  you  tell 
me  at  the  time  when  things  are  wrong,  instead 
of  coming  out  with  it  like  this,  afterwards? 
Why  didn't  you  say  the  chops  were  raw? 
Mine  were  all  right."  She  regarded  him  with 
affectionate  exasperation,  her  wrath  tempered 
by  a  guilty  consciousness  that  there  had  been 
undue  sameness  in  the  meals  lately.  "If  I  were 
like  some  wives — " 

[26] 


A  Good  Dinner 


"The  butcher,  ma'am — he's  waiting,"  inter- 
posed the  maid  apologetically. 

"Tell  him  I'll  come  down  to  the  village  my- 
self and  give  the  order,"  said  Mrs.  Callender 
with  dignity.  "I'll  surprise  you  with  a  really 
good  dinner  to-night,  something  out  of  the 
ordinary.  We'll  have  a  dinner  party  for 
ourselves." 

"All  right,"  said  Mr.  Callender  with  amiable 
alacrity,  feeling  relieved  of  all  individual  re- 
sponsibility. "Let's,  as  the  children  say.  I'll 
bring  out  a  bottle  of  wine  and  some  flowers 
for  you,  to  carry  out  the  idea,"  he  added,  with 
a  magnificent  cooperation  in  her  plans  that 
would  have  made  up  for  all  his  previous  short- 
comings if  he  had  not  suddenly  remarked  as 
he  was  going  out  of  the  door, 

"By  the  way,  we  may  have  company  to- 
night, but  I'm  not  sure.  I  nearly  forgot  to 
mention  it." 

"Chauncey!" 

"A  couple  of  Englishmen,  over  here  to  inter- 
view the  firm;  nice  fellows,  you'd  like  'em. 
They  may  give  us  a  big  order  if  things  are  sat- 
isfactory, and  we  treat  'em  right." 

"Chauncey!" 

But  he  was  gone  for  his  train.  Mrs.  Cal- 
lender looked  horrified,  and  then  laughed.  It 
was  a  way  she  had.  His  unexpectedness  was 
always  a  secret  delight  to  her,  although  she  out- 
[27] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

wardly  bemoaned  it;  it  gave  her  a  gambler's 
interest  in  existence,  and  also  a  pleasing  sense 
of  masculine  masterfulness.  She  was  wont  to 
thank  Heaven  that  she  was  married  to  a  man. 

At  no  time  would  Mrs.  Callender  have  been 
averse  to  the  society  of  two  nice  men  for  din- 
ner. She  decided  at  once  to  expect  them  per- 
manently, and  accordingly  took  her  cookery 
books  in  for  consultation  with  the  kitchen  di- 
vinity, an  elderly  competent  woman,  newly  in- 
stalled, whose  look  of  aggrieved  patience  had 
been  gained  from  a  peripatetic  experience  of 
young  and  erratic  housewives. 

This  being  swooped  a  pile  of  dish-towels  off 
in  one  arm  from  the  back  of  a  chair  as  Mrs. 
Callender  drew  it  forward,  swooped  a  cluster 
of  dishes  from  the  table,  and  with  still  another 
swoop  wiped  the  white  oil-cloth  cover  clean 
enough  for  the  books  to  be  deposited  on  it 
She  then  stood,  her  hands  in  front  of  her,  rig- 
idly attentive  to  the  words  of  fate. 

There  was,  however,  an  innate  joyousness 
about  young  Mrs.  Callender  which  bubbled 
forth  at  all  times  and  in  all  places,  carrying  pre- 
conceived opinions  with  it  The  countenance 
of  the  cook  insensibly  relaxed  as  Mrs.  Callender 
beamingly  said, 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  good  dinner  to-night, 
Catherine,  and  I  want  you  to  help  me." 

"Yes,  ma'am — for  how  many?" 


A  Good  Dinner 


"Only  four.  I've  decided  on  some  of  the 
things  I  want.  You  know  how  to  make  cream 
of  celery  soup?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"And  boiled  salmon  with  white  sauce — you 
made  the  last  very  nicely;  and  cucumbers 
dressed  with  oil  and  vinegar — " 

"You'll  have  to  order  the  oil,  ma'am,  as 
we're  just  out  of  it." 

"Yes,  I  will ;  of  course,  we'll  need  it  for  the 
mayonnaise  also.  I'll  have  tomato  salad,  and  I 
wish  you  would  make  some  cheese  wafers  to  go 
with  it  like  those  we  had  when  you  came  last 
week.  They  were  awfully  good.  And  I  want 
just  a  few  rhubarb  tarts  and  a  frozen  chocolate 
pudding  for  dessert — here's  the  receipt  for  that 
— with  whipped  cream.  And  you  might  make 
a  small  cake  of  any  kind  that's  easy,  Catherine." 

"What  kind  of  meat  is  it  to  be,  ma'am?" 

"Spring  lamb,"  said  Mrs.  Callender  with  all 
the  solemnity  which  such  a  resolution  demand- 
ed. To  buy  real  spring  lamb  in  the  suburbs  in 
early  April  puts  one  on  a  level  with  a  moneyed 
aristocracy.  "Spring  lamb  with  mint  sauce  and 
fresh  peas  and  new  potatoes,  if  I  can  get  them," 
she  added  reverently  as  a  saving  clause.  She 
blessed  her  lucky  stars  that  it  was  not  a  Friday, 
when,  as  every  suburban  dweller  knows,  there 
are  only  a  few  wilted  strands  of  green  to  be 
seen  in  the  vegetable  bins,  and  nothing  but  cold 
[29] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

round  potatoes  and  onions  and  turnips  are  un- 
temptingly  offered  for  sale. 

"And  oh,  Catherine,"  concluded  Mrs.  Cal- 
lender,  "we'll  have  coffee,  of  course;  and  I  wish 
you'd  make  some  of  those  lovely  little  rolls  of 
yours — that  is,  if  you  have  time,"  she  gener- 
ously conceded. 

"I'll  put  the  bit  of  ironing  I  have  on  hand 
away  until  to-morrow,"  said  Catherine  with 
the  resignation  of  necessity.  "And  you'll  make 
out  a  list,  ma'am,  if  you  please,  of  the  things 
we  do  be  needing.  I'd  have  to  get  at  the  cake 
and  the  rolls  this  morning.  There's  not  a  thing 
in  the  house  to-day  to  start  on.  We've  no  eggs, 
nor  cheese,  nor  cream,  nor  chocolate,  and  not 
enough  butter,  and  no  rock  salt  for  the  freez- 
ing, and  there's  no  fruit  either,  if  you  want 
that." 

"Oh,  yes,  certainly!  It's  well  that  you  re- 
minded me."  Mrs.  Callender  beamed  anew 
upon  her  help.  "I'm  going  out  to-day  to  lunch- 
eon, so  you  and  Nelly  will  have  all  the  time 
there  is.  I'll  go  and  see  about  the  ordering  at 
once  as  soon  as  I  have  given  her  directions 
about  the  table.  I  want  everything  to  look  as 
pretty  as  possible.  Mr.  Callender  is  going  to 
bring  me  some  lovely  flowers  for  the  center  of 
it,"  she  concluded  with  a  little  flourish. 

In  the  little  rounds  of  a  suburban  town  any 
incident  is  an  event.  Mrs.  Callender  felt  that 
[30] 


A  Good  Dinner 


the  day  had  become  one  of  real  importance. 
She  let  her  fancy  play  around  the  two  English- 
men and  her  good  dinner  and  her  own  toilet 
until  she  was  in  a  very  pleasurable  state  of  ex- 
citement. And  to  be  going  out  to  luncheon 
besides!  The  latter,  however,  was  not  a  real 
function,  but  only  the  usual  concomitant  of  a 
French  reading  which  she  held  every  week  with 
a  friend — still,  it  was  quite  like  having  two 
invitations  in  one  day. 

It  happened  that  another  friend  stopped  in 
casually  that  morning  to  see  Mrs.  Callender, 
on  her  way  home  from  marketing,  and  from 
her  she  gained  the  pleasing  knowledge  that 
all  the  viands  on  which  she  had  set  her  reck- 
less fancy  were  really  to  be  had  that  day — 
even  to  the  fresh  peas,  whose  pods  might  al- 
most have  contained  small  balls  of  gold,  so 
stupendous  was  the  price  asked  for  them.  But 
when  she  finally  went  upstairs  to  dress  she 
found,  to  her  consternation,  that  it  was  already 
half-past  eleven,  and  not  a  thing  ordered  yet! 

Every  moment  now  was  precious.  She  con- 
centrated all  her  attention,  and  sitting  down 
by  her  desk  took  up  a  sheet  of  blue  paper  and 
wrote  down  rapidly  on  it  a  list  of  all  her 
wants — one  for  the  grocer,  and  one  for  the 
butcher.  Then  Fortune  favoring  her  with  the 
sight  of  little  Jack  Rand  across  the  street,  on 
[31] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

his  bicycle,  she  called  him  over  and  confided 
the  list  to  his  care. 

"And  be  sure  that  they  both  read  the  order 
carefully,"  she  said.  "Take  it  on  to  Cadmus 
when  O'Reilly  is  through  with  it.  You  will  not 
need  to  tell  them  anything  except  that  they  are 
to  send  the  things  at  once." 

"Yes,"  said  Jacky,  departing  with  swift- 
revolving  red  legs.  As  she  saw  the  blue  paper 
in  his  hands  a  strange  reluctance  seemed  to 
hover  over  her,  she  couldn't  tell  why,  as  if  it 
were  somehow  wrong  to  write  lists  on  blue  pa- 
per. Perhaps  it  was  extravagant.  There  was 
a  load  off  her  mind  when  Jack  returned  to  af- 
firm the  faithful  performance  of  his  errand,  be- 
fore she  started  out  for  the  luncheon.  "  "They 
had  all  the  things  and  they'll  send  them  right 
up,  they  promised' "  She  repeated  his  words 
with  a  glow  of  satisfaction. 

There  was  no  French  after  luncheon  that 
day.  Her  friend  had  tickets  for  the  private 
view  of  some  pictures  in  town  and  persuaded 
Mrs.  Callender  to  accompany  her,  under  the 
pledge  of  taking  an  early  train  back.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  six  o'clock  bells  were  ring- 
ing before  Mrs.  Callender  had  started  to  walk 
home  from  the  station,  feeling  thoroughly 
guilty  as  she  thought  of  her  long  defection 
from  the  affairs  of  the  household  on  such  a  day, 
though  it  was  quite  likely  that  Chauncey's 
[32] 


A  Good  Dinner 


friends  would  not  come.    The  blue  paper  re- 
turned to  her  mind,  unpleasantly,  mysteriously. 

She  hastened  into  the  kitchen,  to  be  confront- 
ed by  a  scene  of  spotless  order,  a  brilliant  fire  in 
the  range  shedding  a  red  glow  over  the  hearth, 
and  the  white-aproned  cook  sitting  in  front 
of  it  with  her  hands  folded  and  a  stony  glare 
in  her  eyes. 

"How  is  the  dinner  getting  on?"  asked  Mrs. 
Callender  nervously. 

"There  ain't  no  dinner,"  said  the  cook. 

"No  dinner!  What  do  you  mean,  CatK- 
erine?" 

"Not  the  sign  of  a  thing  has  come  this  whole 
blessed  day,  ma'am;  and  me  a-waitin'  here  with 
my  ironin'  half  done,  in  the  middle  of  the  week. 
Not  an  egg  nor  a  potato  is  there  in  the  house, 
even." 

Mrs.  Callender  stopped,  confounded.  The 
shops  were  all  closed  at  that  hour. 

"Why,  I  saw  Jack  Rand  myself,  after  he 
had  given  the  order !"  she  exclaimed,  and  then 
— she  knew :  like  lightning  her  association  with 
the  sheet  of  blue  writing-paper  was  revealed 
to  her;  on  the  other  side  of  it  was  written  the 
address  of  a  new-comer  who  lived  across  the 
track  at  the  other  end  of  the  village.  The  mar- 
keting had  gone  there ! 

"Well,  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!"  she 
commented  blankly,  and,  as  usual,  laughed, 
[331 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

It  was  but  a  brief  ten  minutes  later  that  her 
husband  was  presenting  his  guests  to  her — they 
had  come!  She  had  been  but  hoping  against 
hope  that  they  would  not. 

"Cynthia,  I  want  to  introduce  Mr.  Warbur- 
ton  and  Mr.  Kennard.  I  have  persuaded  them 
to  dine  with  us  to-night." 

"It  was  awfully  good  of  your  husband  to  in- 
vite us,"  said  Mr.  Warburton,  who  was  the 
elder,  pleasant-faced  and  gray-haired,  with  the 
refined  accent  and  accustomed  manner  of  a 
gentleman.  "I  hope  we'll  not  inconvenience 
you,  Mrs.  Callender." 

"No,  I  hope  we're  not  inconveniencing  you," 
murmured  the  other,  who  looked  nineteen  and 
was  twenty-nine,  who  spoke  from  somewhere 
down  in  his  throat  and  blushed  with  every 
word. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Mrs.  Callender,  im- 
mediately and  intrepidly  rising  to  the  occasion. 
She  was  a  stanchly  hospitable  little  soul,  and  to 
have  refused  a  welcome  to  the  guests  foisted  on 
her  would  have  been  as  impossible  to  her  at  any 
time  as  to  the  proverbial  Arab.  There  was  an 
inscrutable  defiance  in  her  eyes,  however,  when 
they  met  her  husband's,  which  puzzled  him 
uncomfortably. 

"Mr.  Nichols  wished  us  all  to  dine  at  the 
Waldorf-Astoria,"  he  explained — Mr.  Nichols 
was  the  senior  partner  of  the  firm.  "But  I 
[34] 


A  Good  Dinner 


found,  accidentally,  that  these  gentlemen  were 
extremely  tired  of  living  at  hotels,  and  longed 
for  a  little  home-like  dinner,  by  way  of  variety." 

"We  have  been  so  much  in  your  big  hotels," 
said  Mr.  Warburton  apologetically.  "It  makes 
one  very  dull,  after  a  time,  I  think.  You  can't 
imagine,  Mrs.  Callender,  our  joy  when  Mr. 
Callender  so  kindly  offered  to  take  us  in.  It's 
so  uncommonly  jolly  of  you  both  to  treat  us  in 
this  way." 

"I  remembered  that  you  said  we  were  to 
have  a  particularly  good  dinner  to-night,  so  I 
didn't  telegraph  you  when  I  found  that  they 
could  come,"  said  Mr.  Callender  when  the 
party  had  separated  to  dress  and  he  and  his 
wife  were  alone  in  their  own  room.  "Nichols 
is  very  anxious  to  have  them  pleased — I  told 
you  that  before,  I  think.  They're  looking  at 
machines,  and  if  they  take  the  London  agency 
for  us  it  will  make  a  big  difference.  Why  on 
earth  did  you  look  at  me  in  that  way  down- 
stairs ?  Is  there  anything  wrong  ?" 

"No;  nothing  is  wrong,"  said  his  wife  iron- 
ically, "except  that  we  haven't  any  dinner — 
to  speak  of.  Oh,  dear,  if  you  make  me  laugh 
I'll  never  be  able  to  hook  this  gown.  No,  it  isn't 
the  least  bit  tight,  it's  almost  too  loose,  in  fact 
— but  I  can't  hook  it  when  I  laugh.  Chauncey, 
the  order  went  wrong  in  some  way,  this  morn- 
ing, and  the  marketing  never  came  at  all.  Just 
[35] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

stand  and  take  that  in.  If  you  had  only  helped 
me  at  breakfast  when  I  asked  you  to,  it 
wouldn't  have  happened.  I  was  away  all  the 
afternoon,  and,  of  course,  Catherine  never  sent 
for  anything — just  sat  and  waited.  There's 
nothing  in  the  house  but  some  cans  of  mock- 
turtle  soup  and  tomatoes,  and  one  can  of  corned 
beef,  and  a  small  one  of  plum  pudding.  Cath- 
erine is  going  to  warm  the  beef  in  the  tomatoes, 
and  make  a  sauce  for  the  pudding.  I'd  die  be- 
fore I'd  apologize  beforehand  to  those  men; 
they'd  never  forgive  themselves  for  coming." 

Mr.  Callender  whistled.  "Good  gracious! 
And  to  think  we've  come  from  the  Waldorf- 
Astoria  for  this!  But  I  don't  see  yet  how  it 
happened,"  he  incautiously  objected.  "I  should 
think  you  could  have  managed  better  in  some 
way,  Cynthia." 

"Oh,  you  do,  do  you?"  said  Mrs.  Callender. 
"Well,  I  don't.  If  you  had  the  housekeeping 
to  look  after  in  a  place  like  this,  Chauncey, 
where  you  never  can  get  anything  you  want, 
and  there's  not  a  shop  in  the  place  open  after 
half-past  six — " 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  know,"  interposed  Mr.  Cal- 
lender hastily,  dodging  the  subject  with  the 
ease  of  long  practice.  "But  couldn't  you  knock 
up  an  omelet,  or  a  Welsh  rarebit,  or  some  sort 
of  a  side  dish?  Couldn't  you  borrow  some- 
thing?" 

[36] 


A  Good  Dinner 


Mrs.  Callender  shook  her  head  tragically. 

"Nelly  went  to  the  Appletons  and  the  War- 
ings  to  see  if  she  couldn't  get  some  eggs,  but 
they  had  only  one  left  at  each  place.  It's  no 
use,  Chauncey,  we've  got  to  do  the  best  we  can. 
I've  put  on  my  prettiest  gown,  and — did  you 
bring  the  wine  ?" 

"Yes,  and  it's  good,"  said  Mr.  Callender 
with  returning  cheerfulness.  He  was  glad  now 
that  he  had  paid  a  price  for  it  that  was  too  large 
ever  to  be  divulged  to  his  wife. 

"And  the  flowers?" 

"What  flowers?" 

"The  flowers  you  said  you  were  going  to 
bring  me." 

"My  dear  girl,  I  never  thought  of  them  from 
that  moment  to  this." 

"Then  we  have  nothing  for  the  center  of  the 
table  but  that  old  crumpled-up  fernery,"  she 
paused  tragically.  "Not  even  fruit!  There's 
another  plank  gone." 

"Never  mind,  you're  the  whole  platform," 
said  her  husband  with  jollity.  "You  always 
manage  some  way." 

"I  have  to,"  she  pleaded,  looking  at  herself 
approvingly  in  the  glass.  The  jetted  black 
dress  set  off  her  white  neck  and  arms  very  well. 
She  never  considered  herself  pretty,  but  she  had 
an  infectious  smile,  brilliant  teeth,  and  those 
very  light  gray  eyes  that  look  black  under  ex- 
[37] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

citement  She  cast  a  provocative  glance  at  her 
husband,  with  mock  coquetry,  and  then  deftly 
avoided  his  outstretched  arm. 

"I've  no  time  for  you,"  she  said  saucily. 
"But  for  goodness'  sake,  Chauncey,  rise  to  the 
occasion  all  you  can!" 

The  two  irreproachably  attired  men  who 
made  their  entrance  into  the  drawing-room 
looked  at  her  in  a  manner  which  she  certainly 
found  encouraging.  She  concluded  that  the 
chances  were  good  for  making  them  enjoy  the 
dinner,  irrespective  of  its  quality.  She  was  en- 
joying their  unspoken  admiration,  and  the  con- 
versation also,  when  Mr.  Warburton  returned 
to  the  subject  of  their  invitation. 

"It's  so  good  of  you  to  have  us  without  any 
notice — so  uncommonly  jolly  for  us.  We've 
been  so  tired  of  hotel  cooking,  after  the 
steamer." 

"Yes,"  chimed  in  the  other,  "it  grew  to  be 
almost  as  tiresome  to  us  as  the  beastly  tinned 
food  we  lived  on  when  we  were  in  Africa." 

"Oh,  have  you  been  in  Africa  lately  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Callender  with  composure,  although  she 
and  her  husband  felt  the  piercing  of  a  mortal 
dart,  and  did  not  dare  to  look  at  each  other. 

"Yes,  Kennard  and  I  were  on  an  exploring 

expedition  last  year,  accidentally;  it's  quite  a 

long  tale — but  we  lived  on  tinned  soups  and 

meats,  and  even  plum  pudding — fancy  it  in  the 

[38] 


A  Good  Dinner 


hot  climate ! — until  even  the  smell  of  them  sick- 
ened us.  We've  not  been  able  to  touch  a  bit 
of  tinned  food  since." 

"Canned  things — or  tinned,  as  you  call 
them — are  very  useful  in  emergencies,"  said 
Mr.  Callender  with  idiotic  solemnity.  "You 
know  you  have  to  eat  them  sometimes — when 
you  can't — help  yourself,  you  know.  Oh, 
yes,  in  emergencies  tinned  things  are  very  use- 
ful— if  you  like  'em." 

Mr.  Kennard  laughed  heartily,  as  if  at  some 
delicate  joke.  "Ah,  yes,  yes,  if  you  like  them 
— if  you  like  them,  Warburton,  yes — mind 
that,  yes !" 

"Excuse  me  for  a  moment,"  said  Mrs.  Cal- 
lender with  graceful  deliberation,  sweeping 
slowly  out  of  the  room,  and  as  soon  as  the  door 
had  closed  behind  her  rushing  into  the  kitchen 
wildly.  The  fortunes  of  war  were  against  her, 
but  win  the  victory  she  would.  There  had  to 
be  some  way  out  of  this ! 

"Don't  dish  up  a  thing,  Catherine,"  she  or- 
dered breathlessly.  "It  is  no  use;  the  gentlemen 
never  eat  anything  canned.  I've  got  to  think 
up  something  else."  Daunted  by  the  grim  face 
of  the  insulted  cook,  she  turned  appealingly  to 
the  waitress,  a  young  and  venturesome  person, 
as  woman  to  woman.  "You  must  know  of 
something  I  could  do,  Nelly !" 

"The  Warings,  ma'am — " 
[39] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"You  told  me  you'd  been  there,  and  that 
everything  they  had  was  cooked  for  their  own 
dinner." 

The  eyes  of  Irish  Nelly  sparkled.  "That's 
just  it,  ma'am.  Mr.  Waring' s  home  late  to- 
night, and  they're  only  just  now  sitting  down 
to  the  soup.  I  seen  it  going  in  through  the 
window.  If  you — "  she  stopped  tentatively. 

"Well,  well— say  it!" 

"Sure,  they'd  loan  you  the  whole  dinner, 
ma'am,  if  you  asked  it." 

The  light  of  kindred  inspiration  kindled  in 
Mrs.  Callender.  The  neighborhood  was  prac- 
tically a  joint-stock  food  company,  where 
maids  might  be  seen  flitting  through  the  back 
yard  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  evening,  with 
the  spoils  of  the  borrower.  But  an  entire  din- 
ner! The  magnificence  of  the  scheme  took 
Mrs.  Callender's  breath  away. 

"You'd  give  the  lend  of  it  yourself,  ma'am," 
said  Nelly  impartially. 

Mrs.  Callender  gasped — and  assented. 

"Come!"  she  said,  and  followed  by  the  maid, 
dashed  out  of  the  kitchen  door,  down  the  back 
piazza  steps,  and  then  up  again  on  the  piazza 
of  the  adjoining  house. 

The  people  seated  at  the  table  in  the  dining- 
room  looked  up  at  the  long  window,  amazed  to 
see  Mrs.  Callender  gesticulating  insanely,  at 
them  from  without 

[40] 


A  Good  Dinner 


"Don't  help  any  more  of  that  soup,"  she 
called  insistently.  "Don't  help  any  more  of  it 
— wait  till  I  get  in."  The  window  opened  from 
the  inside,  and  she  hurled  herself  into  the  room. 
"No,  no!"  she  answered  the  look  on  their  hor- 
ror-struck faces,  "it's  not  poisoned.  I  don't 
mean  that — it's  all  right;  but  I  want  it  myself,  I 
want  your  dinner.  Oh,  will  you  let  me  take 
it  home  with  me?" 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Callender,"  expostulated  Mr. 
Waring  in  a  quieting  voice,  rising  cautiously. 

"No,  I'm  not  crazy !  I  mean  just  what  I  say. 
My  husband  has  brought  home  company,  and 
we  had  only  a  canned  dinner,  and  they  can't 
eat  it  because  they've  been  in  Africa — and,  oh, 
I  can't  explain.  And  it's  so  important  to  treat 
them  well,  and — oh,  you  dear  thing !" 

For  Mrs.  Waring  had  handed  the  soup  to 
Nelly  and  was  already  giving  orders  to  her  own 
maid. 

"Don't  say  another  word,"  she  commanded 
rapidly,  with  a  woman's  perception  grasping 
the  situation.  "Send  us  over  just  what  you 
have  in  exchange.  We  have  only  a  plain  home 
dinner — roast  beef,  vegetables,  macaroni,  cot- 
tage pudding — you  can  put  the  things  in  your 
oven  again.  Henry,  carry  over  this  roast,  will 
you?  Don't  make  any  noise,  any  of  you." 

"I'll  take  the  potatoes,"  said  Mrs.  Callen- 
der fervently,  but  as  she  climbed  her  own  piazza 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

steps  once  more  and  saw  the  ghostly  procession 
that  came  and  went  stealthily  bearing  dishes, 
her  knees  suddenly  bent  under  her,  and  she 
leaned  against  one  of  the  piazza  posts,  too  weak 
from  laughter  to  move. 

"Take  care,  you'll  drop  that  dish,"  said  Mr. 
Waring  interposing  a  dexterous  arm,  while  he 
endeavored  to  balance  the  roast  on  the  railing. 
"Mrs.  Callender,  don't  sit  down  on  the  piazza ; 
get  up.  You'll  have  me  laughing,  too,  if  you 
don't  stop,  and  I've  got  to  take  this  in  and  go 
back  for  plates." 

"We  have  plates,"  said  Mrs.  Callender, 
strangling.  "Oh,  Mr.  Waring,  we  have  plates 
— we  have  something.  Oh,  Mr.  Waring,  go 
and  leave  me,  go  and  leave  me!  I'll  never  be 
able  to  stand  up." 

"Hello,  what's  the  matter?"  Mr.  Callender, 
with  an  excited  whisper,  came  peering  out  into 
the  semi-darkness.  "That  back  door  keeps  let- 
ting in  an  infernal  draught.  What  on  earth 
are  you  and  Waring  doing  out  here,  Cynthia? 
And  you  without  a  thing  over  your  shoulders ! 
I  call  that  mean,  having  a  good  time  out  here 
by  yourselves,  and  leaving  me  inside  to  do  all 
the  entertaining.  Don't  you  know  that  we're 
waiting  for  dinner,  and  it's  after  half-past  seven 
o'clock?" 

His  ill-used  expression  was  the  last  straw. 
Mr.  Waring  rocked  and  reeled  with  his  platter, 
[42] 


A  Good  Dinner 


while  the  roast  performed  an  obligate  move- 
ment. 

"Oh!"  moaned  Mrs.  Callender  as  her  hus- 
band finally  assisted  her  to  an  erect  position, 
and  offendedly  took  up  the  dish  of  potatoes. 
"Don't  say  a  word,  don't  ask  me  a  thing;  you'll 
never  in  this  world  know  all  I've  gone  through 
in  the  last  hour — you  couldn't  take  it  in.  But 
I've  got  the  dinner — your  Englishmen  are  pro- 
vided for — your  future  is  assured,  and  all  that 
we  have  to  do  now  is  to  go  in  and  eat — and 
eat — and  eat." 


143] 


The  Strength  of  Ten 


The  Strength  of  Ten 

HFTER  plunging  from  the  light  and 
comfort  of  the  heated  train  to  the 
track,  just  below  the  little  Gothic  sta- 
tion of  Braewood,  John  Atterbury  had  well- 
nigh  half  a  mile  to  walk  before  reaching  his 
suburban  residence.  The  way  led  in  part 
across  untilled  fields  from  the  inclosures  of 
which  bars  had  been  removed  to  facilitate  the 
passage  of  daily  commuters.  In  the  slant  sun- 
light of  a  summer  evening,  with  insects  chirp- 
ing in  the  dusty  grass  by  the  side  of  the  worn 
foot-path,  and  a  fresh  breeze  from  outlying 
meadows  scented  with  clover  and  milkweed  to 
fan  the  brow  of  the  toiler,  this  walk  served  as 
a  pleasant  approach,  in  the  company  of  conver- 
sational friends,  to  further  country  refreshment 
— the  hammock  on  the  verandah,  the  intimate 
society  of  rosebushes,  or  a  little  putting  on  the 
sward  at  the  back  of  the  house.  But  on  a  night 
in  January,  with  the  thermometer  five  degrees 
above  zero,  and  a  fierce  wind  blowing  out  of  il- 
limitable blackness,  life  in  the  suburbs  demand- 
ed strenuous  will-power.  Men  put  their  heads 
down  and  ran  in  silence,  with  overcoats  tightly 
buttoned,  and  hands  beating  together,  their 
footsteps  sounding  heavily  on  the  frozen  earth. 
[47] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

The  wind  cut  John  Atterbury's  strong  lungs 
like  a  knife,  and  his  feet  seemed  to  stumble 
against  the  cold  as  if  it  had  been  a  visible  bar- 
rier. Moreover,  he  bore  within  him  no  light- 
ness of  spirit,  but  all  the  chill  and  fatigue  of  a 
hard  day  spent  in  business  transactions  that 
have  come  to  nothing,  added  to  the  bitter 
knowledge  of  an  immediate  and  pressing  need 
for  money  in  the  common  uses  of  life.  He  had 
a  numbing  sense  of  defeat,  and  worse  than  that, 
of  inadequacy.  If  the  man  whom  he  was  to 
meet  to-night  did  not  bring  relief,  he  knew  not 
where  to  turn.  His  tired  brain  revolved  sub- 
consciously futile  plans  for  the  morrow,  while 
his  one  overmastering  desire  was  to  reach  the 
light  and  warmth  and  rest  of  the  cozy  house 
that  sheltered  his  young  wife  and  three  small 
children. 

With  a  sharp  pang  of  disappointment,  he 
perceived,  as  he  turned  the  corner,  that  the 
front  of  the  villa  was  in  darkness  except  for  a 
dim  light  in  his  wife's  room,  and  as  he  opened 
the  door  with  his  latch  key  no  gush  of  hot  air 
greeted  him,  but  a  stony  coldness.  He  knocked 
against  a  go-cart  in  the  square  hall  on  his  way 
to  light  the  gas,  and  his  wife's  voice  called  down 
softly, 

"Is  that  you,  dear?" 

"Yes.    Are  you  ill?" 

"No,  only  resting.  Aren't  you  coming  up?" 
[48] 


The  Strength  of  Ten 


"In  a  moment." 

He  divested  himself  of  his  hat  and  coat,  and 
stood  absently  trying  to  warm  his  hands  at  the 
frozen  register,  and  then  with  a  long  sigh,  pre- 
pared to  take  up  this  end  of  the  domestic  burden 
with  the  patient  use  of  habit.  He  went  up- 
stairs with  a  firm  and  even  step,  treading  more 
lightly  as  he  passed  the  nursery  door  where 
the  baby  was  going  to  sleep  under  the  charge  of 
Katy,  the  nurse-maid,  and  entered  the  room 
where  his  wife  lay  on  the  lounge  in  a  crimson 
dressing-gown,  a  flowered  coverlet  thrown 
over  her  feet,  her  dark  hair  lying  in  rings  on 
the  white  pillow,  and  her  large,  dark  eyes 
turned  expectantly  toward  him.  The  comfort 
of  the  pretty,  luxurious  room,  which  gave  no 
hint  of  this  new  poverty  in  its  fittings,  was 
eclipsed  by  the  icy  chill  that  was  like  an  opaque 
atmosphere. 

The  wind  outside  hurled  itself  at  the  house 
and  shook  the  shutters. 

Atterbury  turned  up  the  gas,  and  then  sat 
down  on  the  couch  by  his  wife  and  kissed  her. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing  but  that  old  pain ;  it  will  go  over 
if  I  lie  still — it  was  my  only  chance  if  we  are  to 
go  out  to-night.  It's  really  better  now.  I  prom- 
ised Mrs.  Harrington  faithfully  this  afternoon 
that  we'd  come,  in  spite  of  the  weather.  Do 
you  mind  ?" 

[49] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"No.    Is  Harrington  home  yet?" 

"She  expects  him  back  this  evening.  Oh, 
Jack,  Bridget  was  sent  for  this  morning  before 
the  breakfast  things  were  cleared  away.  She 
really  didn't  want  to  go  off  this  time,  but  that 
mother  of  hers — !  The  children  were  more 
troublesome  than  usual,  and  had  to  be  taken 
care  of.  They're  all  asleep  now  but  the  baby. 
I  sent  them  off  earlier  than  usual  on  account 
of  the  cold.  Katy  is  no  good  around  the  house, 
and  we've  had  such  a  day !  The  furnace — " 

"I  see  that  it's  out." 

"Both  fires  were  out,  but  the  range  is  going 
now.  The  wind  was  all  wrong.  We  made  up 
the  furnace  three  times,  but  I  couldn't  remem- 
ber how  to  turn  the  dampers ;  they  never  seemed 
to  be  the  right  way.  There's  a  grate  fire  in 
the  nursery,  though." 

"The  water  hasn't  frozen  in  the  pipes,  I 
hope?" 

There  was  an  ominous  sound  in  his  voice. 

She  nodded  speechlessly,  and  looked  at  him, 
her  eyes  large  with  unshed  tears. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?"  He  rose  for  ac- 
tion. "You  should  have  sent  for  the  plumber 
at  once." 

"There  wasn't  anyone  to  send,  and  it  was  so 
late  when  I  found  it  out;  he  wouldn't  have 
come  until  to-morrow,  anyway." 

There  was  a  certain  look  in  his  wife's  face 
[so] 


The  Strength  of  Ten 


at  times  which  filled  Atterbury  with  extreme 
tenderness.  In  the  seven  years  of  their  wedded 
life  she  had  explained  to  him  every  varying 
grade  of  emotion  which  the  sight  of  him  caused 
her,  but  there  were  many  things  which  he  had 
never  thought  of  telling  her,  or  even  conscious- 
ly formulating  to  himself.  He  went  over  to 
the  closet,  poured  out  some  cordial  in  a  small 
glass  and  brought  it  to  her  to  drink,  watching 
narrowly  until  a  faint  tinge  of  color  relieved 
the  bluish  pallor  around  her  mouth.  Then  he 
poured  out  another  small  glass  for  himself,  and 
spread  the  down  coverlet  more  closely  over 
her,  frustrating  her  evident  desire  to  rise. 

"You  lie  still."  He  passed  a  heavy,  affec- 
tionate hand  over  her  forehead,  and  she  rested 
her  cheek  against  it  with  a  passionate  helpless- 
ness. "What  on  earth  did  you  want  to  do  all 
the  work  for,  to-day  ?  Why  didn't  you  get 
the  McCaffrey  woman  ?  You've  no  business  to 
tire  yourself  out  like  this,  Agnes.  I  don't  see 
how  you're  ever  going  out  this  evening!" 

"Oh,  I  can  go,  I'm  so  much  better  now.  I 
thought — I  know  that  we  have  so  little  money 
— I  wanted  to  economize;  other  women  seem 
to  do  such  things  without  any  trouble  at  all." 

"Well,  we  won't  economize  that  way.  Al- 
ways get  what  help  is  necessary."  He  spoke 
with  the  quick,  matter-of-fact  decision  of  a 
man  used  to  affairs,  temporarily  regardless  of 
[Si] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

the  financial  situation,  whose  cramping  iron 
restrictions  could  be  felt  at  every  turn.  "I'll 
go  down  now  and  start  things  up !" 

"Your  dinner  is  in  the  oven.  I'll  send  Katy 
to  you  as  soon  as  Herbert  is  asleep.  She  can't 
leave  him  now,  for  he  crawls  over  the  crib  and 
drops  out." 

"All  right !  Don't  you  worry,  I'll  get  it." 

He  ran  downstairs,  arrayed  for  service,  and 
Agnes  listened  to  his  receding  footsteps,  a 
warm  comfort  in  her  heart  despite  that  racking 
of  the  bones,  as  of  one  "smote  hip  and  thigh," 
which  comes  to  the  delicately-born  with  unac- 
customed kitchen-work.  After  some  moments 
— spent,  as  she  guiltily  divined,  in  searching 
for  the  coal  shovel — the  clatter  and  rattle  of 
the  furnace  showed  that  a  master  hand  had 
taken  it  in  charge. 

Atterbury  stoked  and  shoveled  with  every 
quick  sense  suddenly  concentrated  on  a  deep 
and  hidden  care.  If  anything  should  happen 
to  his  wife — vague,  yet  awful  phrase — if  any- 
thing should  "happen"  to  his  wife!  She  was 
not  made  for  struggle;  the  doctor  had  told  him 
that  before.  He  knew,  none  better !  how  brave, 
loving,  yet  sensitive  a  spirit  was  housed  in  that 
tender  and  fragile  body.  If  she  were  to  leave 
him  and  their  little  children — 

No  mist  came  over  his  eyes  at  the  phantasm, 
but  a  sobered  keenness  of  vision  gleamed  there. 
[52] 


The  Strength  of  Ten 


There  were  certain  things  which  it  behooved  a 
man  to  do.  He  walked  over  to  the  coal  bins — 
they  were  nearly  empty.  Well,  more  coal  must 
be  ordered  at  once;  he  would  himself  speak 
about  it  to  Murphy,  and  make  arrangements  to 
pay  that  last  bill — somehow. 

A  catalogue  of  indebtedness  unrolled  itself 
before  him,  but  he  gazed  at  it  steadily.  The 
fog-like  depression  was  gone.  He  felt  in  his 
veins  the  first  tingling  of  that  bitter  wine  of 
necessity  which  invigorates  the  strong  spirit. 

And  there  was  Harrington,  at  whose  house 
the  card  party  was  to  be  held  to-night.  He 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  his  heart  beat  quicker. 
He  had  not  told  his  wife  how  much  he  counted 
on  seeing  Harrington,  but  he  was  sure  that 
she  had  divined  it — nothing  else  would  have 
taken  him  out  again  on  such  a  night.  This 
wealthy  and  genial  neighbor  had  held  out  great 
hopes  of  furthering  one  scheme  of  Atterbury's 
in  that  trip  out  West  from  which  he  had  just 
returned.  Atterbury  had  helped  Harrington 
about  his  patent,  and  the  latter  professed  him- 
self eager  to  repay  the  service.  If  Harrington 
had  used  his  influence — as  he  could  use  it — 
and  had  got  the  company  to  look  at  the  land, 
why,  it  was  as  good  as  sold.  Atterbury  knew 
that  it  held  the  very  qualities  for  which  they 
were  looking.  If  the  plan  were  a  success,  then 
what  had  been  started  first  as  an  attractive 
[53] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"flyer"  might  prove  to  be  a  main  dependence 
when  most  needed.  He  felt  a  little  bitterly  that 
the  friends  on  whom  he  had  most  counted  had 
failed  him.  Callender — Nichols — Waring — in 
their  plans  there  was  no  room  for  him.  This 
meeting  with  Harrington  was  the  crucial  point 
on  which  the  future  hung. 

When  Atterbury  went  back  to  his  wife, 
warmed  with  his  work,  she  was  standing  be- 
fore the  mirror,  dressing;  a  faint,  smoky  smell 
arose  from  the  register.  The  wind  was  still 
evidently  in  the  wrong  direction  for  chimneys. 
An  infant's  prattle,  mixed  with  an  occasional 
whimper,  came  from  the  nursery. 

"I've  wrapped  hot  cloths  around  the  pipes," 
he  said  cheerfully,  "and  left  a  couple  of  kero- 
sene lamps  lighted  on  the  floor  near  them. 
We'll  have  to  take  our  chances  now.  What's 
this  envelope  on  the  mantelpiece?"  His  face 
fell.  "Another  assessment  from  the  Associa- 
tion ?  That  makes  the  eleventh  this  month,  be- 
sides the  regular  insurance,  that  was  due  on 
the  first." 

"But  you  can't  pay  it !"  She  had  looked  bright 
when  he  came  in,  but  now  her  lips  quivered. 

"Oh,  I'll  have  to  pay  that ;  don't  you  worry 
about  it.  I  tell  you,  though,  Agnes,  I'd  be 
worth  a  good  deal  more  to  you  dead  than  I  am 
now." 

"Don't !  You  know  I  hate  to  hear  you  talk 
[54] 


The  Strength  of  Ten 


like  that.  I'd  never  take  your  old  insurance 
money."  She  grasped  him  by  her  two  slender, 
cold  hands  and  tried  ineffectually  to  shake  him 
while  he  smiled  down  at  her,  and  then  hid  her 
head  on  his  breast,  raising  it,  however,  to  say, 

"Did  you  eat  your  dinner?  I  hope  that  it 
wasn't  burned." 

"I  ate — some  of  it !" 

"Oh,"  she  groaned,  "and  on  such  a  night!" 

"Never  mind,  I'm  counting  on  a  good  hot 
little  supper  at  Harrington's.  And,  Agnes-<-" 
having  none  of  the  care  of  the  children,  he  had 
a  habit  of  intervening  at  inopportune  moments 
with  well-meant  suggestions — "just  listen  to 
that  child!  Don't  you  think  he  might  go  to 
sleep  better  if  I  brought  him  in  here  with  us  for 
a  few  moments?" 

"No,"  said  his  wife.  She  added  afterward, 
sweetly  in  token  of  renewed  amity,  "He's  such 
a  darling,  and  he  looks  more  like  you  every 
day.  He'll  be  asleep  soon.  But  I'm  sure  Gwen- 
dolen will  have  the  croup  to-night,  the  house 
has  been  so  cold." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Atterbury  grimly.  By 
some  weird  fatality  the  festive  hour  abroad  was 
almost  inevitably  followed  by  harrowing  at- 
tendance on  one  or  other  of  the  infants  in  the 
long  watches  of  the  night.  Husband  and  wife 
looked  at  each  other  and  laughed,  and  then 
[55] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

kissed  in  silence,  like  two  children,  in  simple 
accord. 

It  was  with  many  instructions  to  Katy  that 
the  Atterburys  finally  left  the  house,  instruc- 
tions that  comprehended  the  dampers,  the 
babies,  and  the  pipes. 

"I  don't  suppose  that  she  will  remember  a 
word  that  we  have  told  her,"  said  Agnes 
resignedly. 

"Well,  we  are  only  going  three  doors  away ; 
I'll  run  back  after  a  while  and  see." 

"I'm  so  glad  I'm  going  with  you,"  she  whis- 
pered as  they  walked  the  few  steps,  he  trying 
to  shield  her  from  the  violence  of  the  wind. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  jibed,  "it's  such  a  new  thing, 
isn't  it,  to  be  with  me!  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself." 

The  Harringtons'  house  was  certainly  a 
change  from  the  one  they  had  left.  Delicious 
warmth  radiated  from  it  as  the  ample  doors 
unclosed  to  let  the  guests  in;  the  crimson- 
shaded  lights  were  reflected  on  the  card  tables 
and  the  polished  floor,  and  laughing  voices 
greeted  the  newcomers. 

"You  are  late,"  said  the  hostess,  who  was 
considered  handsome,  with  heavy  black  eye- 
brows, dimples  in  her  white,  rounded  cheeks, 
and  a  petulant  expression.  She  wore  a  bunch 
of  violets  in  the  belt  of  her  light  blue  gown. 
"You  are  late,  but  not  so  late  as  my  hus- 


The  Strength  of  Ten 


band.  I  expected  him  home  to  dinner,  and  he 
hasn't  come  yet.  It's  the  way  I'm  always  treat- 
ed," she  pouted  engagingly;  "you  other  men 
will  have  to  be  very,  very  nice  to  me." 

She  stared  with  public  audacity  into  the  eyes 
of  the  man  nearest  her,  and  then  let  her  long 
black  lashes  sweep  her  cheek.  It  pleased  her 
to  pose  as  the  attractive  young  married  woman, 
and  by  tacit  consent  the  suburban  husbands 
were  allowed  by  their  wives  to  go  through  the 
motions  of  flirting  with  her. 

Atterbury  settled  down  to  the  strain  of  wait- 
ing. The  company  was  composed  of  couples 
who  saw  each  other  daily,  the  men  on  the 
trains,  the  women  in  their  small  social  rounds. 
Every  event  that  happened  in  their  little  circle 
was  common  property,  to  be  discussed  by  all. 
The  evolution  of  Mrs.  Oliver's  black  spangled 
gown,  the  expensive  house  which  the  new  doc- 
tor was  erecting  under  the  auspices  of  the 
Building  Loan  Association,  Totty  Jenkins' 
stirring  experiences  in  the  kindergarten,  and 
Mr.  Waring's  sudden  substitution  of  the  seven- 
thirty-one  morning  train  for  the  eight-fourteen, 
were  subjects  interspersed  with,  and  of  the 
same  calibre,  as  discussions  on  the  presidential 
candidate,  the  last  new  book,  or  affairs  in 
Africa. 

In  spite  of  this  pooling  of  interests,  so  to 
speak,  the  weekly  gathering  at  the  houses  of 
[57] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

different  members  always  took  on  an  aspect  of 
novelty.  Everyone  dressed  for  the  occasion, 
and  there  was  usually  a  good  game  of  cards, 
and  a  modest  little  supper  afterwards,  and  the 
women  met  other  men  besides  their  husbands, 
and  the  men  met  each  other  and  smoked  after 
supper.  The  only  real  variety  in  the  pro- 
gramme was  that  the  simple  and  hearty  friend- 
liness beneath  all  this  was  more  apparent  at 
some  houses  than  at  others. 

The  Harringtons — somewhat  new  arrivals 
— were  the  confessedly  rich  people  of  the  set, 
and  the  entertainments  which  they  gave  were 
characterized  with  a  little  more  pomp  and  cir- 
cumstance. Mrs.  Harrington,  for  all  her  per- 
functory belleship,  was  a  lively  and  entertaining 
hostess.  Everyone  strove  to  make  up  to  her  for 
Harrington's  absence,  and  a  particularly  cordial 
spirit  prevailed.  It  was  always  a  secret  trial  to 
Agnes  not  to  play  cards  at  the  same  table  as 
her  husband  in  the  progressive  game,  but  to- 
night she  did  not  mind,  for  his  steel-blue  eyes 
meet  hers  in  a  kind,  remembering  glance  when- 
ever she  looked  for  it,  that  spoke  of  a  sweet 
and  intimate  companionship,  with  which  out- 
side events  had  nothing  to  do. 

In  one  of  the  intermissions  of  the  game 
Atterbury  heard  Henry  Waring  say  to  Nichols, 

"Did  you  see  the  little  item  in  one  of  the 
[58] 


The  Strength  of  Ten 


evening  papers  about  that  Western  Company  to 
whom  Harrington  sold  his  patent?" 

"No,  what  was  it  ?"  asked  Nichols. 

"They're  going  to  start  up  the  plant  at  once 
near  some  town  in  Missouri,  I've  forgotten 
the  name— paid  fifty  thousand  for  the  ground. 
You  see,  they  required  peculiar  natural  facili- 
ties; that's  what's  kept  them  back  so  long.  It 
seems  a  good  deal  of  money  to  pay  for  a  clay- 
bank.  Of  course,  Harrington's  in  a  hurry  to 
start  them  up;  he'll  get  a  big  royalty." 

"You  are  not  to  talk  business,"  said  Mrs. 
Harrington's  gay  voice. 

Atterbury  felt  the  room  swirl  around  with 
him;  he  knew  the  name  of  the  town  well 
enough !  He  had  been  sure  from  the  first  that 
those  barren  acres  of  his  held  just  what  the 
Company  was  looking  for,  but  he  had  never 
dreamed  of  getting  more  than  ten  or  fifteen 
thousand  for  them.  A  warm  gratitude  to  Har- 
rington filled  him,  and  then  a  chill  of  doubt; 
The  newspaper  only  chronicled  a  rumor,  not  a 
certainty,  for  no  real  sale  could  take  place 
without  his  knowledge. 

He  did  not  know  how  he  played  after  this, 
and  it  was  a  tremendous  relief  when  the  players 
left  the  tables  and  stood  or  sat  in  little  homelike 
groups,  all  talking  and  laughing  at  once  in  a 
merry  tumult.  There  was  in  the  air  that  fra-f 
grant  aroma  of  newly-made  coffee  which  is  so 
[59], 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

peculiarly  convivial  in  the  suburbs,  and  the 
absence  of  Harrington,  who  was  nevertheless 
considered  to  be  a  jolly  good  fellow,  had  ceased 
to  be  noticed  by  anyone  but  Atterbury,  when 
the  sound  of  wheels  was  heard  grating  on  the 
driveway  outside.  He  clutched  the  chair  he 
stood  by,  although  his  face  was  impassive. 
The  hour  he  had  been  waiting  for  was  here — 
Harrington  had  come. 

Mrs.  Harrington  ran  into  the  hall  with  an 
exclamation  of  pleasure,  as  the  door  opened, 
letting  in  a  flood  of  cold  air  and  a  large  man 
heavily  wrapped  in  fur.  The  listening  com- 
pany heard  him  say, 

"What  in — time — have  you  got  this  crowd 
here  to-night  for?"  The  words  were  respecta- 
ble, but  the  tone  cursed. 

There  was  a  stiffening  change  in  her  voice. 
"Hush!  Didn't  you  get  my  letter?" 

"What  letter?  No,  if  I  had  I  wouldn't  have 
been  fool  enough  to  come  home  for  a  quiet 
night's  rest ;  I  might  have  known  I  couldn't  get 
it  here.  You  can't  live  without  a  lot  of  people 
cackling  around  you." 

"Go  to  bed,  then.  Nobody  wants  to  see 
you !"  It  was  the  quick  thrust  of  a  rapier. 

"Much  rest  I'd  get  with  that  mob  in  there." 

The  woman  flashed  back  at  him  with  a  white 
heat, 

"You  have  your  men's  dinners  and  your  wine 
[60] 


The  Strength  of  Ten 


parties — and  you  grudge  me  a  little  pleasure 
like  this !  It's  like  you ;  it's  like — "  For  very 
shame's  sake,  the  guests  were  hurriedly  talking 
to  cover  the  sounds  of  strife. 

"Harrington's  trip  evidently  hasn't  done  him 
much  good,"  said  Nichols  to  Atterbury.  "I 
doubt  his  success.  He  has  too  many  large 
schemes  on  hand;  what  he  makes  in  one  way 
he  uses  to  float  something  else." 

"It's  possible,"  said  Atterbury  thoughtfully. 

"It  doesn't  do  to  take  things  like  that ;  if  you 
lose  your  grip  you  can't  get  on." 

"That's  what  I'm  finding  out  now.  I  don't 
mind  telling  you,  Mr.  Nichols,  that  I'm  in  a 
hole.  But  you  have  no  experience  in  that  way ; 
your  business  is  secure. 

The  two  men  had  drawn  to  one  side  and 
were  talking  in  low  and  confidential  tones. 

"Is  it  ?  I  tell  you,  Atterbury,  the  time  I  went 
through  five  years  ago  was  awful,  simply  awful. 
No,  I  never  said  a  word  to  a  soul  here ;  nobody 
even  suspected.  There  was  one  time  when  I 
thought  I'd  have  to  send  Sue  and  the  babies 
home  to  her  father,  and  light  out  for  the 
Klondyke." 

"But  you  didn't,"  said  Atterbury,  his  own 
pulse  leaping  to  the  courage  of  the  other  man 
with  a  sudden  kinship. 

"No,  I  didn't  go.  You  can't  be  discouraged 
when  you  have  a  wife  and  children  to  support. 
£61] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

Things  turned  out — it  was  most  unexpected. 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  some  day.  It's  well  that 
the  opportunities  of  life  are  not  bounded  by 
our  knowledge  of  them,  Atterbury." 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence  with  a 
large  assent. 

"By  the  way,  we  are  rather  at  a  standstill 
at  present,"  said  Nichols  after  a  pause.  "We've 
got  to  get  some  one  to  represent  us  in  South 
Africa  at  once — business  possibilities  are  open- 
ing up  there  tremendously.  You  don't  happen 
to  know  of  the  right  person  ?" 

"Myself,"  said  Atterbury. 

"I  wish  it  were  possible,"  said  Nichols  po- 
litely. "But  of  course  that's  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. We  must  have  some  one  who  thoroughly 
understands  the  business,  and  the  machines — 
one  who  can  take  the  initiative.  The  fact  is, 
either  Callender  or  I  ought  to  go,  but  we  can't 
leave.  We  virtually  need  a  third  man  in  the 
firm,  but  he  must  have  capital." 

"Please  come  into  the  other  room,  all  of  you," 
said  the  hostess  with  a  forced  playfulness, 
pulling  aside  the  portieres  which  had  concealed 
the  little  feast.  There  was  a  heightened  color 
in  her  face,  and  her  eyes  were  hard.  "Mr.  Har- 
rington says  that  he  is  going  to  stay  in  here 
until  we  have  finished,  but  I  know  you  won't 
miss  him!" 

"Oh,  come  along  in,  Harrington,"  said  Nich- 


The  Strength  of  Ten 


ols  good-naturedly.  "Tell  us  of  your  travels 
in  the  wild  and  woolly  West." 

"There's  nothing  to  tell,"  said  Harrington 
shortly,  turning  away  from  the  instinctive  ques- 
tion in  Atterbury's  look  with  almost  brutal 
rudeness,  and  pushing  past  him  to  an  armchair, 
where  he  sat  down  and  closed  his  eyes  wearily. 
He  was  a  big  man,  with  thick,  black  hair,  and 
a  black  mustache,  which  dropped  over  a  heavy 
chin. 

"I've  passed  the  nights  in  beastly  sleeping 
cars,  and  the  days  in  dining  and  wining  a  lot 
of  low,  greasy  politicians.  I'm  dog-tired." 
There  were  deep  lines  in  his  low  forehead  and 
under  his  eyes — and  his  large,  white,  powerful 
hand  clasped  and  unclasped  nervously. 

"You  go  in  there,  both  of  you.  I'm  all  broke 
up.  My  wife  will  entertain  you;  her  damn 
chatter  drives  me  mad !" 

"I'll  stay  here  with  you,"  said  Atterbury 
resolutely. 

"I  will  send  your  supper  in  to  you,"  called 
Mrs.  Harrington  lightly,  as  she  saw  him  draw 
up  a  chair  to  one  of  the  deserted  card  tables 
near  which  Harrington  was  sitting  with  his 
eyes  still  closed  and  his  head  leaned  back 
against  the  cushions. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  the  dishes,  but  At- 
terbury ate  and  drank  quickly,  like  the  hungry 
man  he  was,  though  hardly  knowing  what  he 
[63] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

tasted,  except  that  it  was  warm  and  good. 
Then  he  sat  absently  looking  at  the  scene  in  the 
supper  room  where  the  guests  were  grouped 
around  the  table,  the  wax-lights  in  the  can- 
delabra illumining  the  women  opposite  him; 
Mrs.  Harrington's  brilliant  eyes  and  blue  gown, 
the  fair  hair  and  scarlet  draperies  of  pretty 
Mrs.  Waring,  the  white  teeth  and  charming 
smile  of  black-robed  Mrs.  Callender,  and  the 
old-rose  bodice,  slender  neck,  and  dusky, 
drooping  head  that  belonged  to  Agnes. 

In  spite  of  the  festive  appearance,  there  was 
manifest  chill  and  restraint.  The  men,  all  but 
Callender  and  Nichols,  who  talked  apart,  had 
shifted  over  to  seats  by  their  wives,  a  position 
which  does  not  require  due  exertion  in  the 
matter  of  entertainment.  It  is  difficult  to  eat 
and  drink  merrily  when  your  host  is  palpably 
waiting  for  your  departure.  Agnes's  hand 
shook  as  she  held  the  cup  of  hot  coffee  to  which 
she  had  been  looking  forward,  and  her  creamed 
oysters  were  untouched  while  she  tried  to  open 
a  conversation  with  Mrs.  Callender  all  about 
the  Book  Club. 

"Well,"  said  Atterbury  suddenly  after  a 
while,  "what  have  you  got  to  say  to  me,  Har- 
rington?" The  other  man's  manner  was  of- 
fensive, but  Atterbury  was  disposed  to  be 
conciliating. 

[64] 


The  Strength  of  Ten 


Harrington  unclosed  his  heavy,  dark-ringed 
eyes  and  gazed  at  him. 

"What  have  I  got  to  say  to  you?"  He  gave  a 
short  laugh.  "Why,  nothing  that  I  know  of — 
nothing  but  that  I  have  an  infernal  headache." 
There  was  an  extraordinary  undercurrent  of 
insolence  in  his  manner  which  Atterbury  was  at 
a  loss  to  explain. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  to  disturb  you  if  you  are 
ill,"  said  Atterbury  in  level  tones,  "but  a  word 
will  suffice,  Harrington.  I  know  that  the  land 
is  virtually  sold — it  was  in  the  evening  paper. 
How  much  does  it  bring?" 

"What  land?" 

"My  land." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  your  property; 
the  ground  that  the  Company  bought  belonged 
to  me." 

"To  you !  You  never  told  me  that  you  owned 
any  in  Missouri." 

"Do  I  have  to  tell  you  everything?"  Har- 
rington's black  eyes  were  contemptuously 
defiant. 

"No,  but  you  will  have  to  tell  me  this,"  said 
Atterbury. 

Harrington  shifted  uneasily.  "Weir,  then, 
take  the  truth  if  you  want  it.  I  meant  to  keep 
faith  with  you  fairly  enough,  and  I  would 
have  stuck  to  your  interests  if  I  could  have 
afforded  to — that's  the  whole  gist  of  the  mat- 
X  [65] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

ter.  And  you've  no  case  for  complaint;  we 
hadn't  signed  any  agreement." 

"You  found  another  section  like  mine?" 

Harrington  nodded.  "Nearly  as  good.  I 
bought  it  for  a  song,  and  the  Company  sent  out 
a  surveyor  and  a  couple  of  geologists  of  their 
own  to  look  it  up,  and  paid  me  fifty  thousand 
for  it — that  is,  indirectly,  of  course.  I  didn't 
appear  in  the  sale  and  by — I  lost  every  cent  in 
a  deal  yesterday."  He  swore  under  his  breath. 

"You  used  the  private  information  I  gave 
you,  I  suppose?"  said  Atterbury  in  dangerously 
low  tones. 

A  flicker  of  a  smile  crossed  Harrington's 
moody  face. 

"Well,  yes.  You  gave  me  the  points,  and  I 
used  them;  any  man  would." 

"You  miserable — sneaking — liar!"  said  At- 
terbury very  slowly.  He  rose,  and  brought 
both  hands  down  on  the  table  with  a  gesture 
that  did  not  lose  in  power  because  it  made  no 
sound.  "No  man  that  lives  shall  cheat  me 
with  impunity.  I'll  brand  you  for  what  you 
are!" 

"You  can't,"  said  Harrington  insolently. 

Atterbury  smiled  with  the  scorn  which  dis- 
dained reply,  and  turned  on  his  heel.  He  did 
not  see  the  startled  glance  of  Nichols  and  Cal- 
lender  as  he  went  over  to  a  place  beside  them. 
His  wife  wondered,  as  they  did,  at  a  new  roy- 
[66] 


The  Strength  of  Ten 


alty  in  his  tall  bearing,  as  of  one  used  to  high 
command,  and  bowed  herself  in  adoration 
before  it. 

He  defeated,  he  cast  down !  In  that  moment 
of  tingling  indignation  he  felt  himself  a  con- 
queror ;  nor  obstacle,  nor  loss,  nor  circumstance, 
nor  treachery  should  stand  in  his  way.  This 
blow  had  felled  the  last  barrier  that  confined  a 
free  spirit,  superbly  at  one  with  the  elemental 
force  which  displaces  atoms  and  creates  new 
worlds. 

The  current  of  a  mighty  strength  was  in 
him,  dominant,  compelling,  that  strength  which 
in  some  mysterious  way  has  a  volition  of  its 
own,  apart  from  him  who  possesses  it,  bending 
men  and  events  to  his  uses. 

There  was  a  vibrant  tone  in  his  voice  as  he 
said, 

"Mr.  Nichols,  I  want  to  go  to  South  Africa 
for  you." 

The  gaze  of  the  two  men  met  with  almost  an 
electric  shock. 

"But  you  don't  know  the  business !" 

The  protest  half  invited  discussion. 

"I  can  learn  it." 

'  "We  don't  want  a  man  to  learn,"  said  Cal- 
ender, speaking  for  the  first  time.  "You  must 
understand  that,  Atterbury !  We  can  find  men 
on  every  street  corner  who  would  like  to  learn. 
We  want  some  one  with  a  good  working  knowl- 
[67] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

edge,  who  has  had  experience,  and  is  familiar 
with  our  machines  and  our  methods — one  who 
can  leave  his  family — and  has  capital — " 

Atterbury  shook  his  head.  "No !  You  want 
a  man  like  me,  one  who  cannot  only  handle 
your  machines,  but  handle  men,  and  has  had 
experience  outside  of  your  narrow  line.  Good 
heavens,  Callender,  the  man  you  speak  of — 
barring  the  capital— can  almost  be  picked  up 
at  the  street  corners.  Your  house  is  full  of 
such  as  he — good,  plodding,  trustworthy  men. 
who  understand  what  they  have  been  taught 
about  your  machines  a«d  your  accounts  and 
your  methods,  and  who  understand  nothing 
else;  who  stick  to  their  desks  year  in  and  year 
out.  Will  one  like  that  do  for  you  ?  You  know 
that  it  will  not !  Granted  that  I  don't  know  the 
business  as  you  do — that's  but  a  detail ;  I  know 
what  business  really  is.  Granted  that  I've  got 
no  capital — I've  got  the  one  thing  you  really 
need,  and  that's  the  brains  and  energy  to  get  it 
for  you.  Take  me  into  your  conferences,  give 
me  a  fighting  knowledge  of  what  you  want, 
and  I'll  bring  in  the  capital. 

"The  export  trade  has  a  tremendous  future ; 
my  mind's  been  full  of  it  lately.  You  send  me  to 
South  Africa— to  China — to  the  Philippines, 
and  I'll  undertake  to  double  the  business  in 
three  years,  but  you  mustn't  confine  yourself 
to  one  narrow  line ;  you  must  broaden  out.  You 
[68] 


The  Strength  of  Ten 


ought  to  be  able  to  distance  all  your  competi- 
tors; you  ought  to  be  able  to  merge  them  in 
your  own  company.  For  many  reasons  I  can 
be  worth  more  to  you  than  any  other  man  you 
know.  Great  Scott,  Nichols,  can't  you  see  that 
I'm  the  opportunity  you  want?'* 

Nichols  sat  immovable,  holding  on  to  the 
arms  of  his  chair  with  both  hands.  Facing  the 
light  of  Atterbury's  face,  the  answering  light 
shone  in  his  own.  Callender  still  objected, 
although  plainly  under  great  excitement. 

"You  haven't  managed  your  own  affairs  so 
well." 

"No,"  said  Atterbury,  turning  on  him  like 
lightning,  "and  you  know  why.  You  know 
just  what  claims  the  death  of  Anderson  laid 
upon  me,  and  how  I've  tried  to  carry  them. 
They  will  be  paid  off  now.  Callender,  you're 
not  worth  my  powder  and  shot;  you're  just 
talking.  Mr.  Nichols,  I'm  speaking  to  you. 
You  know  I  can  handle  this  thing !" 

Both  men  rose  unconsciously  and  looked  at 
each  other,  with  a  long  breath  between  them. 

"When  will  you  send  me  out  ?"  asked  Atter- 
bury at  last  with  his  brilliant  smile. 

"Come  to  me  to-morrow  at  ten,"  said  Nich- 
ols, giving  his  hand  to  the  other,  who  grasped 
it  silently.  "Mind,  I  don't  promise  anything." 

"No,  we  don't  promise  anything,"  agreed  the 
excited  Callender. 

[69] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"No,"  said  Atterbury  jubilantly,  "that's  all 
right.  We've  got  a  great  future  before  us,  my 
friends." 

As  he  wheeled  around  he  caught  sight  of 
Harrington,  whom  he  had  momentarily 
forgotten. 

"Ah,"  he  said  airily,  "do  either  of  you  own 
any  stock  in  our  host's  Company?  It  may  be 
just  as  well  for  you  to  investigate  a  little ;  you 
may  find  that  as  the  treasurer  he's  been  specu- 
lating with  the  funds.  I'll  give  you  my  reasons 
for  this  also — to-morrow." 

"Come,"  he  said  to  Agnes,  "we  must  be  go- 
ing." As  they  stepped  out  once  more  into  the 
darkness,  the  wind  nearly  hurled  them  off  their 
feet;  a  million  icy  points  of  snow  pricked  and 
stung  the  face.  She  clung  to  him,  and  he  put 
his  arm  around  her  and  swept  her  through  the 
storm  as  a  lover  might  his  bride,  unknowing 
of  it. 

Yet  for  all  that  warm  clasp,  she  subtly  felt 
the  severance  of  his  thought  from  her,  and 
when  they  were  safely  landed  in  the  hall,  she 
said  nervously, 

"What  was  that  I  heard  you  saying  to  Mr. 
Nichols  ?  You're  not  going  to  leave  me !" 

Her  tone  had  in  it  the  universal  protest  of 
womankind,  to  whom  the  bodily  desertion  is 
less  than  the  spiritual  one  that  makes  it  possible. 

He  bent  his  ardent  eyes  upon  her  with  a 
[70] 


The  Strength  of  Ten 


glow  which  she  had  never  seen  in  them  even  in 
the  earliest  days  of  their  love. 

"Ah,  but  it  will  be  only  to  come  back  to 
you"  he  said  with  a  leap  forward  to  a  joy 
that  made  parting  dim,  and  she  looked  up  at 
him  with  a  soul  so  steeped  in  love  that  for  the 
moment  she  could  only  desire  what  he  did. 

The  evidences  of  a  clinging  domesticity  were 
again  around  them;  fierce  blasts  of  heat  from 
the  furnace  showed  that  Katy  had  peacefully 
forgotten  the  dampers;  the  water  dripped, 
dripped  into  the  kitchen  sink  from  the  thawing 
pipes.  A  hollow  clanging  cough  from  the  up- 
per regions  told  that  poor  little  Gwendolen's 
post-festive  croup  had  indeed  set  in,  but  even 
this  no  longer  appeared  a  bitter  and  blasting 
ill  to  Atterbury,  but  merely  a  temporary 
discomfort,  to  be  gone  with  the  morrow. 


In  the  Reign  of  Quintilia 


[73] 


In  the   Reign  of  Quintilia 

HS  Mr.  Nichols  sped  on  his  homeward 
way  to  the  suburbs  by  boat  and  train, 
the  abstraction  which  the  clerks  had 
noted  grew  upon  him.  At  forty-six,  his  leonine 
locks  streaked  with  gray,  the  comfortable,  solid, 
prosperous  father  of  a  family,  the  president 
of  one  corporation  and  member  of  Heaven 
only  knows  how  many  governing  boards,  Mr. 
Nichols  was  in  love— deeply  and  irremediably 
in  love — with  his  youngest  daughter,  an  infant 
of  parts. 

She  was  the  sixth  child,  not  the  seventh, 
whom  tradition  surrounds  with  the  mysterious 
opportunities  of  good  fortune.  She  was,  more- 
over, the  fifth  girl  in  unbroken  succession,  and 
her  father,  like  many  another  man  in  like  case, 
had  not  even  looked  at  the  baby  until  she  was 
nearly  a  week  old,  only  to  fall  a  victim  to  the 
charms  of  the  little  warm,  helpless  being  after 
he  had  once  held  it  in  his  arms  and  felt  the 
tiny  rose-leaf  fingers  close  over  one  of  his.  As 
he  gazed  intently  at  the  face  with  its  miniature 
features,  the  blue  eyes  suddenly  opened  and 
gazed  at  him  unwinkingly  for  a  space  of  sec- 
onds. Then  the  lids  closed  over  them  peaceful- 
ly, and  a  long  sigh  issued  from  the  parted  lips, 
[75] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

in  its  reflex  breathing  giving  the  indication  of 
a  ridiculous  dimple  at  one  corner  of  the  mouth. 
When  Mr.  Nichols  looked  at  his  wife,  who  had 
been  observing  him,  they  both  smiled,  with  a 
tightening  of  a  new  bond  of  affection  between 
them. 

"Pretty  nice  sort  of  a  girl,  isn't  she?"  he 
remarked  as  he  handed  the  child  back  to  the 
waiting  nurse,  and  when  he  went  downstairs 
his  wife  heard  him  whistling  a  tune  that  had 
been  a  part  of  their  early  betrothal  days,  and 
hid  her  face  in  the  pillow  with  a  happy  glow 
on  it,  although  she  was  a  staid  and  respectable 
matron. 

It  was  noticed  after  this  that  Mr.  Nichols 
contracted  a  habit  of  coming  in  each  night  and 
gazing  at  the  child  intently  when  he  thought 
himself  unobserved,  and  that  he  seemed  to 
derive  great  and  increasing  satisfaction  from 
the  perusal.  As  the  baby  grew  older  her  face 
lighted  up  for  him  as  for  no  one  else,  and  before 
she  had  reached  her  present  age  of  two  years 
they  were  sweethearts  indeed,  with  a  passion  on 
his  part  which  made  it  unbearable  pain  to  him 
if  she  bumped  her  head  or  pinched  her  finger. 

"HowisQuintilia?" 

The  voice  of  a  near  neighbor  arrested  Mr. 

Nichols's  attention.    A  slow  smile  overspread 

his  countenance  at  the  mention  of  the  beloved 

name,  with  which  the  doctor  had  playfully 

[76] 


In  the  Reign  of  Quintilia 

christened  this  fifth  girl,  to  the  exclusion  of 
her  lawful  cognomen. 

"Oh,  she's  all  right.  At  least  I  hope  she  is 
to-night — she  hasn't  been  very  well  for  a  couple 
of  days;  it's  bothered  me  a  good  deal." 

"My  wife  says  that  she  grows  prettier  every 
day,"  continued  the  obliging  neighbor. 

Mr.  Nichols  beamed.  "She  does.  I'm  com- 
ing home  a  little  earlier  to-night  to  see  how 
she  is.  Her  mother  usually  keeps  her  up  for 
me  when  she's  well." 

He  could  not  tell  how  much  he  Roped  against 
hope  that  she  would  be  up  and  looking  out  for 
him.  He  knew  so  well  how  the  little  lovely 
white  thing  with  the  starry  eyes  and  glinting 
curls  would  run  to  the  stairway  in  her  night- 
gown, and  sitting  down  on  the  top  step  with 
all  the  delicious  fluttering  and  sidling  motions 
of  her  babyhood,  would  thrust  her  plump,  bare 
pink  foot  up  against  his  rough  cheek  with  the 
delighted  cry  of, 

"Pa-pa,  kiss  a  footie !  Kiss  a  footie,  pa-pa !" 

Then  how  he  would  mumble  and  kiss  that 
darling  foot,  and  pretend  to  eat  it,  finally 
snatching  the  adored  baby  in  his  arms,  laugh- 
ing and  struggling,  to  cuddle  close  to  him  when 
he  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  with  the  infinitely 
tender  gentleness  of  the  strong,  as  he  carried 
her  to  her  crib  and  laid  her  in  it.  His  wife  was 
always  there,  too,  watching  him  with  an  indul- 
£77] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

gent  smile.  All  love  between  them  seemed  to 
have  grown  deeper  since  it  merged  in  this  sixth 
child,  whose  advent  had  called  forth  a  large 
offering  of  honest  condolence  from  mistaken 
friends,  and  who  had  brought  a  joy  which  at 
first  the  parents  decorously — nay,  guiltily — 
concealed,  to  revel  in  it  almost  indecently  after- 
wards. 

The  novelty  of  the  first-born,  a  boy,  had 
hindered  complete  enjoyment,  and  with  him, 
as  with  the  four  girls  who  followed  close  after, 
it  was  a  matter  of  such  supreme  importance 
that  all  the  small  rules  which  governed  the 
infantile  world  should  be  strictly  observed. 

Even  as  a  young  woman  Mrs.  Nichols  was 
a  serious  and  conscientious  mother,  who  read 
all  the  literature  bearing  on  family  health  and 
education.  The  infants  were  trained  with  ad- 
amantine firmness  from  their  birth,  and  as  they 
grew  older  Mrs.  Nichols  attended  kindergarten 
meetings  where  the  child  was  meditated  upon 
with  deep  graspings  of  the  intellect,  and  also 
painstakingly  sat  through  recitations  mixed 
with  exasperating  calisthenics  in  the  higher 
schools.  In  fine,  she  so  ordered  her  days  that 
when  pussy-cats  were  under  discussion  in  the 
morning  classes  to  which  Ethel  and  Edith  be- 
longed, she  could  still  lead  their  thoughts  in- 
telligently pussywards  in  the  afternoon,  besides 
holding  the  fourteen-year-old  Stan  to  that 
[78] 


In  the  Reign  of  Quintilia 

hour's  exercise  in  spelling  which  was  also  like 
an  exercise  in  breaking  stone. 

To  the  higher  rule  Quintilia  promised  from 
the  first  to  be  an  exception.  She  made  her  own 
laws.  When  she  lifted  her  little  arms  to  be 
"taken  up"  it  was  not  in  the  heart  of  mortal 
to  resist  her;  food  was  given  her  when  she 
cried  for  it,  and  for  the  life  of  her  Mrs.  Nichols 
could  not  always  combat  the  temptation  to  hold 
the  dear  little  clinging  form  in  her  arms,  with 
the  damp  head  and  its  thistledown  curls  nest- 
ling on  her  shoulder,  and  rock  and  sing  her 
baby  to  sleep  in  the  old-fashioned  way. 

"No,  I  don't  think  she's  any  worse."  Mr. 
Nichols's  wife  had  met  him  at  the  door  with 
the  peaceful  kiss  of  possession  before  reassur- 
ing him  for  the  non-appearance  of  Quintilia. 
She  was  a  woman  of  medium  height,  rather 
stout,  with  somewhat  large  features,  a  fresh 
complexion,  thick  black  hair,  brown  eyes,  and 
an  expression  that  was  at  once  pleasant  and 
capable.  The  heart  of  her  husband  trusted  in 
her  implicitly,  and  her  tone  was  a  relief  to  him. 

"What  did  the  doctor  say?" 

"He  thinks  that  it's  only  a  cold,  but  she 
must  be  kept  very  quiet.  The  nurse  came  this 
afternoon,  but  she  doesn't  seem  very —  What 
is  it,  Miss  Candy?" 

Mr.  Nichols  looked  up  at  tfie  stairs,  and  his 
tense  gaze  involuntarily  softened.  A  pretty 
[79] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

girl  in  a  blue  and  white  cambric  uniform  ap- 
pears to  most  men  as  an  angel  of  healing.  This 
one  had  large  and  appealing  eyes,  and  little 
brown  fuzzy  curls  in  front  under  her  white 
cap.  There  was  a  slip  of  paper  in  the  hand 
held  forward. 

"Would  you  kindly  have  this  prescription 
filled  at  once?  I  forgot  it  when  you  sent  out 
last." 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Nichols  with  alacrity. 
"I've  got  my  coat  on.  I'll  go  for  it  now." 

"Oh,  thank  you!  And  would  you  mind 
bringing  home  some  alcohol?  I  think  there 
ought  to  be  some  in  the  house." 

"There  is  a  bottle  of  alcohol,"  interpolated 
Mrs.  Nichols. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  but  I  just  tipped  it  over  ac- 
cidentally. Would  you  please  send  one  of  the 
maids  to  sweep  up  the  broken  glass?  Thank 
you." 

The  vision  of  the  pretty  face  supported  Mr. 
Nichols  but  insubstantially  while  he  waited 
half  an  hour  in  the  drug-store  in  contemplation 
of  a  deserted  soda  fountain,  fly-specked  pack- 
ages of  brown  headache  cure,  a  white  and  bony 
array  of  tooth-brushes,  and  some  open  boxes 
of  flabby  cigars  in  a  glass  case  under  an  electric 
lighter.  A  suburban  drug-store  is  not  exactly 
an  enlivening  spot,  and  he  was  to  become  fatal- 
ly well  acquainted  with  it  in  the  next  few  days. 
[80] 


In  the  Reign  of  Quintilia 

To-night  he  went  up  and  looked  at  the  baby 
on  his  return;  she  was  asleep,  with  cheeks 
flushed  to  a  beautiful  rose.  She  was  breathing 
very  hard,  but  still  she  slept,  with  her  head 
thrown  back,  and  the  soft  rings  of  hair  spread 
out  over  the  pillow;  the  curves  of  the  little 
round  body  were  carved  out  in  the  white  bed- 
clothes. The  light  in  the  room  was  shaded, 
and  the  nurse  sat  by  the  table  under  it,  writing 
out  her  official  report  with  a  gold  pencil  held 
in  her  taper  fingers;  but  his  wife  sat  and 
watched  the  child.  A  sudden  ache  invaded  the 
man's  heart. 

"Is  she  all  right  ?"  he  whispered. 

His  wife  nodded.  "Oh,  yes.  Doesn't  she 
look  darling?" 

But  Mr.  Nichols  did  not  answer.  The  nurse 
came  forward  and  smoothed  little  Quintilia's 
pillow  professionally. 

"She  seems  to  take  an  interest,"  he  whispered 
to  his  wife  as  they  left  the  room.  He  felt  the 
tenderness  which  a  good  man  has  for  a  young 
girl  who  has  to  earn  her  own  living;  she  is 
somewhat  on  the  same  plane  as  himself,  and  it 
is  a  state  of  being  of  which  he  appreciates  the 
difficulties.  He  realized  that  his  wife's  silence 
was  distinctly  unsympathetic. 

The  children  were  very  noisy  that  evening, 
without  their  mother's  presence,  in  the  hour 
allotted  them  before  bedtime.  The  youngest, 
[81] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

Loulou,  who  was  next  to  the  baby,  was  seven 
years  old — a  stubby,  chubby,  black-haired  child, 
with  that  genius  for  saying  the  wrong  thing  in 
the  wrong  place  which  is  a  mother's  woe.  As 
she  climbed  on  her  father's  knee  to-night  she 
kept  saying : 

"Quintilia's  sick,  father.  Quintilia's  sick! 
Do  you  think  she'll  be  worse,  to-morrow,  fa- 
ther?" she  grinned  at  him  pleasantly,  showing 
a  mouth  with  three  front  teeth  missing. 

Mr.  Nichols  resisted  a  strong  impulse  to 
set  her  down  forcibly.  His  attitude  toward 
Loulou  was  a  continual  reproach  to  him.  He 
knew,  as  his  wife  often  reminded  him,  that 
Loulou  had  been  his  pet  when  she  was  a  baby ; 
he  knew  that  he  really  loved  her,  and  that  if 
she  were  ill  his  fatherly  affection  would  assert 
itself  in  the  utmost  care  for  her;  but  now  her 
presence  in  rude  and  awkward  health  annoyed 
and  irritated  him  beyond  expression. 

"If  Quintilia  dies,  I'll  be  the  baby !" 

"For  shame,  Loulou!"  said  the  eldest  girl, 
Christine,  who  had  her  mother's  own  gentle 
manner.  "You  mustn't  talk  like  that.  Ethel 
and  Edith,  don't  make  so  much  noise.  They 
can't  go  to  bed,  father  dear,  until  Ann  comes 
back;  she's  just  gone  to  the  village  for 
something  Miss  Candy  wanted." 

"Miss  Candy  is  awful  pretty!"  said  the 
bounding  Loulou.  "Stan  waited  by  the  stairs 
[82] 


In  the  Reign  of  Quintilia 

to-night  to  see  her  come  down.  She  calls  him 
Mr.  Stanley,  and  he's  been  going  errands  for 
her  all  the  afternoon.  And  he  put  on  his  best 
jacket!" 

"I  didn't,"  blurted  Stan,  with  a  very  red 
face,  regardless  of  the  chorus  of  horrified  ohos ! 
from  the  rest  of  the  children.  "Well,  if  I  did, 
it  was  because  the  old  one  was  torn." 

"If  Quintilia  dies,  I'll  be  the  baby."  Loulou 
reverted  to  the  first  idea. 

Stan  cried,  "Shut  up,  will  you?"  and  threw 
his  book  at  her,  being  a  boy  on  whom  years  of 
training  had  had  no  appreciable  effect;  but 
Christine  came  and  put  her  arm  around  her 
father's  neck  and  kissed  him,  with  her  soft 
braid  of  yellow  hair  falling  across  his  shoulder, 
and  he  pressed  the  little  comforter  to  him 
fondly. 

Anxiety  about  Quintilia  had  grown  by  morn- 
ing. Mrs.  Nichols  came  down  to  breakfast 
in  a  brown  cambric  gown,  with  her  hair  brushed 
severely  back  from  her  forehead,  and  hurriedly 
drank  a  cup  of  coffee.  The  tense  expression  of 
her  face,  which  she  strove  to  render  cheerful, 
took  some  of  the  charm  for  Mr.  Nichols  from 
Miss  Candy's  curls  and  crispness.  He  left  the 
house  with  a  load  upon  him,  which  grew 
heavier — and  lighter — heavier — and  lighter, 
with  rhythmical  regularity,  as  hope  or  fear 
predominated. 

[83] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

Nearly  a  week  passed,  and  still  the  baby's  life 
hung  wavering  in  the  balance;  the  president 
had  come  down  town  every  day,  looking  grayer 
and  quieter  each  morning. 

He  came  to  the  office  mechanically,  and  at- 
tended mechanically  to  the  business  that  had 
to  be  transacted.  He  was  dulled  to  a  strange 
and  abnormal  gentleness  both  there  and  at 
home.  He  thanked  those  who  performed  the 
usual  services  for  him  in  the  office  with 
punctilious  politeness. 

The  children  at  home  went  unreproved  by 
him.  The  chatter  of  poor  little  Loulou  had 
ceased  to  irritate,  although  it  occasionally  gave 
him  a  spasm  of  pain.  They  were  nothing  to 
him,  mere  simulacrums  of  what  had  once 
power  to  please  or  displease.  Even  Stan  did 
not  come  in  for  the  usual  disapprobation  on  the 
dirty  hands,  the  slouching  walk,  or  the  uncouth 
expressions  which  characterized  him.  To  Mr. 
Nichols  his  wife  was  the  only  real  person  in 
the  house,  and  there  was  but  one  thought 
between  them — the  thought  of  Quintilia. 

The  mother  worked  untiringly,  while  Miss 
Candy  curled  her  hair,  and  wrote  interminable 
reports,  and  stood  in  charming  professional 
attitudes  when  the  doctor  was  present,  and  sent 
the  household  individually  and  collectively  for 
belated  prescriptions,  and  bottles  that  were 
"just  out,"  and  glycerine,  and  boracic  acid,  and 
[84] 


In  the  Reign  of  Quintilia 

camphorated  oil,  and  disinfectants,  and  oiled 
silk,  and  medicine-droppers,  and  rubber  water- 
bags,  and  absorbent  cotton,  and  whisky,  and 
malted  milk,  and  biscuits,  and  candles,  and 
lime-water,  and  all  the  various  foods  so  chem- 
ically prepared  that  they  are  warranted  to  be 
retained  by  the  weakest  stomach,  and  of  which 
no  invalid  can  ever  be  persuaded  to  swallow 
more  than  the  first  teaspoonful.  The  doctor 
studied  Miss  Candy's  reports — patently  com- 
posed from  memory — with  an  imperturbable 
face,  and  questioned  Mrs.  Nichols  closely  aft- 
erwards. Mr.  Nichols,  as  a  mortal  man,  still 
derived  a  vague  satisfaction  in  her  presence, 
although  he  spent  his  tired  evenings  in  going 
errands  for  her;  she  looked  so  pretty  that  he 
always  felt  as  if  Quintilia  must  be  better. 

Sometimes  he  was  allowed  to  sit  by  the  child 
while  his  wife  took  a  short  rest.  He  knew, 
most  humbly,  his  deficiencies  in  the  sick-room 
— by  some  ulterior  influence  when  he  moved 
fire-irons  fell  over,  bottles  broke,  papers  rattled, 
his  shoes  made  an  earthquake,  whatever  he 
touched  creaked.  He  would  sit  in  a  rigidly 
quiet  attitude  until  his  wife  returned,  with  his 
head  on  his  hand,  watching  the  little  pinched 
face,  the  half-closed  eyes,  listening  to  the  breath- 
ing, the  rise  and  fall  of  the  little  chest.  Oh, 
God,  the  hours  by  a  sick  child ! 

A  night  came  that  was  long  to  be  remem- 
[85] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

bered  in  the  Nichols  household — a  night  of 
ringing  bells  and  shutting  doors  and  hurried 
running  up  and  down  stairs,  with  the  scared 
children  in  their  white  night-gowns  peeping 
out  of  the  bedroom  door  after  their  tearful 
prayers  for  little  sister. 

In  the  small  hours  the  doctor's  steady  tread 
could  be  heard  in  the  sick-room,  or  on  the  land- 
ing where  he  came  to  give  brief  orders.  Mr. 
Nichols  sat  on  a  couch  in  the  wide  hall  outside 
the  door.  Sometimes  his  wife  came  from  the 
sick-room  and  sat  down  by  him  for  a  few  sec- 
onds, and  they  were  together  in  an  anguish  of 
dreadful  love.  When  she  was  gone  he  re- 
mained with  his  head  on  his  breast  thinking. 

He  thought  of  the  years  of  happiness  they 
had  had;  he  thought  of  the  beloved  sleeping 
children  around  them  and  of  honest,  clumsy 
Stan,  and  troublesome,  inconsequent  Lou- 
lou  with  special  tenderness;  he  thought  of  all 
the  blessings  that  had  been  his. 

It  was  as  if  life  were  brought  to  a  close,  and 
he  humbly  confessed  to  himself  the  unfaithful- 
ness of  his  own  part  in  it,  his  faults  of  temper, 
his  neglect  of  opportunities  to  make  others 
happy.  He  might  have  been  drowning.  His 
gaze,  brought  back  to  land  once  more,  ques- 
tioned those  who  passed  him  in  the  hall.  Miss 
Candy  went  by  once  with  red  eyes,  her  cap 
pushed  to  one  side,  and  her  pretty  hair  all  out 
[86] 


In  the  Reign  of  Quintilia 

of  curl.  She  did  not  even  see  him  as  she 
passed. 

"Father  dear  1" 

He  looked  up — it  was  the  little  eldest  daugh- 
ter of  the  house,  Christine.  "Father  dear,  I 
can't  go  to  sleep,  and  I've  been  lying  in  bed  so 
long!" 

She  sat  down  beside  him  and  slipped  her 
hand  into  his ;  her  blue  eyes  had  the  depth  that 
comes  from  lying  awake  in  darkness.  "I'm 
thinking  all  the  time  of  baby.  Mayn't  I  stay 
here  with  you,  father  dear?  I  want  to  stay 
with  you  so  much." 

"Yes,  my  darling."  He  took  the  steamer- 
rugs  his  wife  had  left  beside  him  and  wrapped 
them  around  the  woman-child,  yellow  braid 
and  all,  and  they  stayed  there  together.  Once 
she  whispered, 

"You're  praying,  too,  father  dear,"  aren't 
you?  I  feel  that  you're  praying;"  and  he  held 
her  closer  and  whispered,  "Yes."  By-and-by 
she  fell  asleep,  and  he  held  her  still. 

The  first  streaks  of  dawn  filtered  through 
the  rooms,  strange  to  those  who  sat  bound  in 
darkness  and  the  shadow  of  death,  a  household 
prepared  only  for  the  night.  Then  an  electric 
current  seemed  to  run  through  the  breathing 
souls  in  it. 

The  doctor  came  out  in  the  hall  and  said, 
"She  will  live!"  A  door  opened  farther  down 
[87] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

— one  flashed  to  another,  "She  will  live !"  The 
message  flew  from  lip  to  lip,  from  heart  to 
heart.  The  returning  breath  of  the  little  ruler 
of  the  house  revivified  all  within  it.  The  awak- 
ened children  ran  out  for  a  moment  to  whisper 
the  gladness,  the  servants  stole  down  the  back 
stairs  to  clatter  in  the  kitchen  and  make  prepa- 
rations for  an  early  breakfast,  one  could  hear 
the  cocks  crowing,  and  the  sunshine  grew 
strong  and  gathered  into  a  long  bar  of  light. 
Quintilia  would  live. 

"You  may  come  in  and  see  her  for  just  a 
minute,"  said  Mrs.  Nichols  to  her  husband, 
leading  him  in  as  one  leads  the  blind.  He  fell 
on  his  knees  by  the  bed,  awestricken.  Was  this 
the  little  rosy  darling  of  his  love?  But  she 
would  live — she  would  live !  As  he  looked  the 
eyes  opened  recognizingly ;  there  was  a  faint 
roguish  smile  on  the  beautiful  lips,  and  the 
faintest  movement  under  the  bedclothes. 

"She  wants  you  to  kiss  her  foot,"  said  the 
divining  mother. 

"Just  hearken  to  the  voice  of  himself  in 
there,"  said  Ellen,  the  waitress,  as  she  came 
into  the  kitchen  from  the  breakfast-room.  "He 
says  you're  to  make  some  more  coffee,  for  this 
isn't  fit  to  be  drank.  Oh,  he's  ragin' !  He's 
sent  Loulou  from  the  table  for  spilling  her 
milk,  and  the  boy's  not  to  play  golf  for  a  week 
on  account  of  the  dirty  hands  of  him,  t{ie 
[88] 


In  the  Reign  of  Quintilia 

poor  child ;  and  he's  got  Miss  Christine  crying 
into  the  porridge,  telling  her  how  she'd  oughter 
look  after  her  little  sisters  better.  Oh,  he's  the 
holy  terror  the  morn,  and  herself  not  down- 
stairs to  quaite  him !  Take  your  time  with  the 
coffee,  Ann;  sure  he'll  murder  me  when  I  get 
back." 

"The  pore  man !"  said  the  cook  indulgently, 
pouring  out  a  fresh  installment  of  the  fragrant 
brown  liquid  into  the  coffee-pot.  "  'Tis  the 
way  wid  'em  all;  sure  'tis  drunk  wid  sorrow 
he's  been !  What  can  ye  expict  ?  The  big  sobs 
was  rindin'  him  whin  he  come  from  the  child's 
room  early,  and  sure  he's  got  to  take  it  out  of 
somebody.  Run  you  wid  the  coffee  now !" 

"Please  don't  go  down  town  to-day,"  his 
wife  implored  him  afterwards.  "You  look  so 
horribly  tired.  Stay  at  home  and  rest."  She 
put  her  arms  round  him  tenderly,  feeling  that 
now  was  the  opportunity  for  the  happiness  of 
mutual  thanksgiving;  and  he  unconsciously 
pushed  her  away  from  him  as  he  answered, 

"Nonsense !  There's  no  reason  why  I  should 
rest." 

She  smothered  her  disappointment  at  his  re- 
buff. "You  won't  be  any  good  at  all  at  the 
office;  I  know  you  have  a  dreadful  headache. 
Go  upstairs  and  lie  down  in  the  blue  room  for 
a  while,  and  nobody  will  disturb  you  there." 

"Well !"    He  gave  a  grudging  assent. 
[89] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

The  blue  room  was  white  and  chilly  and  un- 
lived in.  The  stiff  pillow-shams  rattled  down 
off  the  pillows  as  he  touched  them.  He  liked 
his  own  room,  his  own  bed.  The  light  glared 
down  from  the  windows.  But  it  was  a  place 
where  he  could  be  let  alone,  without  those  eyes 
continually  waiting  upon  him  to  see  how  he 
felt.  After  his  debauch  of  misery  all  feeling 
was  nauseous  to  him.  He  lay  stiffly  on  the  cold, 
straight,  unaccustomed  bed,  and  looked  with 
burning  eyes  at  the  pictures  on  the  wall.  Grad- 
ually the  rack  in  his  head  slackened  a  little,  his 
eyelids  fell  shut,  he  discerned  the  far-off 
approach  of  a  blessed  ease. 

The  door  opened  and  his  wife  came  quietly 
in,  unselfishly  remembering  his  needs  in  the 
midst  of  her  own  fatigue;  she  had  brought  a 
warm  coverlet  to  throw  over  him.  She  lowered 
the  shades  and  went  softly  out  again,  taking 
with  her  every  atom  of  the  peace  that  he  had 
begun  to  wrest  from  a  torturing  universe. 

The  younger  children  talked  in  the  hall ;  he 
heard  them  say, 

"Don't  wake  father.  Hush!  Don't  talk  so 
loud." 

Then  Loulou  screamed,  and  some  one  came 
and  took  them  away  forcibly. 

Ellen,  the  waitress,  knocked  at  the  door  to 
say  that  the  man  had  come  for  the  gas  bill, 
and  would  he  pay  it?  And  Miss  Candy  came 
[90] 


In  the  Reign  of  Quintilia 

afterwards  professionally  with  a  cup  of  hot 
broth,  which  she  thought  he  had  better  drink. 

Then  Mr.  Nichols  rose  up  and  took  a  bath 
and  shaved  and  went  down  town. 

That  day  was  long  remembered  in  the  rooms 
of  the  Electrographic  Company.  Worried  heads 
of  departments  consulted  together;  scared 
clerks  went  hurrying  hither  and  thither;  mis- 
takes were  routed  out,  abuses  which  had  the 
sanction  of  custom  sternly  reformed,  lapses 
from  punctuality  clinched  by  new  and  stringent 
rules.  There  was  a  large  arrearage  of  his  own 
affairs  to  be  attended  to,  by  which  he  had  lost 
money. 

The  intellect  of  Mr.  Nichols  revolted  fiercely 
against  the  sentiment  to  which  it  had  been 
subjugated;  he  saw  every  fact  at  last  stripped 
bare. 

As  the  afternoon  waned  and  the  rush  of  busi- 
ness was  over,  Mr.  Nichols  leaned  forward 
over  his  desk  and  tried  to  make  up  his  mind 
to  get  up  and  go  home.  He  was  weary.  That 
blessed  assurance  that  he  had  longed  for  so  un- 
utterably yesterday  was  his,  yet  it  seemed  no 
longer  a  new  bliss,  but  a  fact  that  he  had  al- 
ways known.  The  pendulum  had  been  set 
swinging  so  hard  toward  the  extreme  of  grief 
that  it  could  not  at  once  reverse  its  motion  and 
swing  toward  happiness.  He  felt  indescribably 
worn,  indescribably  old.  There  are  times  in  all 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

lives  that  are  safely  passed  through,  but  take 
something  out  of  one  which  no  after-delight 
can  put  back  again;  some  of  those  delicate 
sinews  are  broken  which  make  the  unthinking 
strength  of  youth.  In  his  sickness  of  soul  Mr. 
Nichols  sought  mechanically  for  some  bright 
ray  in  the  gray  around  him — something  to 
bring  back  his  accustomed  pleasure  in  living. 
Quintilia's  recovery  —  his  wife  —  children — 
friends — success — even  dinner — all  were  but 
words. 

In  this  gloom  of  effort  he  half  drowsed  off; 
some  fleeting  wave  of  a  dream  showed  a  spot 
of  light  before  him ;  it  grew  larger  and  larger, 
and  with  it  a  figure  grew  also,  until  it  was 
plainly  revealed — the  figure  of  the  sixth  child, 
a  lovely  rounded  thing  with  starry  eyes  and 
thistledown  curls,  dimpling  and  laughing  and 
thrusting  a  delicious  little  pink  foot  in  his 
bearded  face.  He  could  hear  the  baby  voice 
crying, 

"Pa-pa,  kiss  a  footie.  Kiss  a  footie,  pa-pa !" 
A  foolish  smile  overspread  the  countenance 
of  the  president  of  the  Electrographic  Com- 
pany. In  the  rapture  of  love  he  forgot  that 
he  had  been  disloyal  even  for  a  moment  to 
this  Sovereign  Joy. 


[92] 


The  Happiest  Time 


[93] 


The  Happiest  Time 


you  coming  to  church  with 
me  this  morning?" 

"Well  —  not     this     morning,     I 
think,  petty." 

"You  said  you  would." 

"Yes,  I  know  I  did,  but  I  have  a  slight  cold. 
I  don't  think  it  would  be  best  for  me,  really, 
petty.  I've  been  working  pretty  hard  this 
week."  Mr.  Belmore  carefully  deposited  a  pile 
of  newspapers  beside  his  armchair  upon  the 
floor  of  the  little  library,  removing  and  opening 
the  top  layer  for  perusal  as  he  spoke,  his  eyes 
already  glued  to  the  headlines.  "A  quiet  day 
will  do  me  lots  of  good.  I'll  tell  you  what  it 
is  :  I'll  promise  to  go  with  you  next  Sunday,  if 
you  say  so." 

"You  always  promise  you'll  go  next  Sun- 
day." Mrs.  Belmore,  a  brown-haired,  clear- 
eyed  young  woman  in  a  blue  and  white  spotted 
morning  gown,  looked  doubtfully,  yet  with 
manifest  yielding,  at  her  husband.  Mr.  Bel- 
more  presented  the  radiantly  clean  and  peace- 
ful aspect  of  the  man  who  has  risen  at  nine 
o'clock  instead  of  the  customary  seven,  and 
bathed  and  dressed  in  the  sweet  unhurried  calm 
that  belongs  only  to  the  first  day  of  the  week, 
[95] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

poking  dilatorily  among  chiffonier  drawers, 
discovering  hitherto  forgotten  garments  in  his 
closet,  and  leisurely  fumbling  over  a  change  of 
shirt-studs  before  coming  down  to  consume  the 
breakfast  kept  waiting  for  him. 

"Of  course  I  know  it's  your  only  day  at 
home — "  Mrs.  Belmore  reverted  to  her  occu- 
pation of  deftly  setting  the  chairs  in  their 
rightful  places,  and  straightening  the  books  on 
the  tables.  "I  suppose  I  ought  to  insist  on  your 
going — when  you  promised — but  still — "  She 
gave  a  sigh  of  relinquishment.  "I  suppose  you 
do  need  the  rest,"  she  added.  "We  can  have  a 
nice  afternoon  together,  anyway.  You  can  fin- 
ish reading  that  story  aloud,  and  we'll  go  out 
and  take  a  good  look  at  the  garden.  I  think  the 
beans  were  planted  too  close  under  the  pear 
tree  last  year — that  was  the  reason  they  didn't 
come  up  right.  Edith  Barnes  and  Alan  Wilson 
are  coming  out  from  town  after  dinner  for  the 
rest  of  the  day,  but  that  won't  make  any  differ- 
ence to  us." 

"Whatr* 

"Now  Herbert,  how  could  I  help  asking 
them  ?  You  know  the  boarding  house  she  and 
her  mother  live  in.  Edith  never  gets  a  chance 
to  see  him  alone.  They're  saving  up  now  to  get 
married — they've  been  engaged  a  year — so  he 
can't  spend  any  more  money  for  theaters  and 
things,  and  they  just  have  to  walk  and  walk  the 
[96] 


The  Happiest  Time 


streets,  unless  they  go  visiting,  and  they've  been 
almost  everywhere,  Edith  says.  She  wrote  and 
asked  me  to  have  them  for  this  Sunday;  he's 
been  away  for  a  whole  week  somewhere  up  in 
the  State.  I  think  it's  pathetic."  In  the 
warmth  of  explanation  Mrs.  Belmore  had  un- 
wittingly removed  the  pile  of  newspapers  from 
the  floor  to  an  ottoman  at  the  further  end  of 
the  room.  "Edith  says  she  knows  it's  the  hap- 
piest time  of  their  lives,  and  she  does  want  to 
get  some  of  the  benefit  of  it,  poor  girl." 

"What  do  they  want  to  be  engaged  for,  any- 
way?" 

"Herbert!  How  ridiculous!  You  are  the 
most  unreasonable  man  at  times  for  a  sensible 
one  that  I  ever  laid  my  eyes  on.  Why  did  we 
want  to  be  engaged  ?" 

"That  was  different."  Mr.  Belmore's  tone 
conveyed  a  permanent  satisfaction  with  his  own 
case.  "If  every  woman  were  like  you,  petty — 
I  never  could  stand  Edith,  she's  one  of  your 
clever  girls;  there's  something  about  her  that 
always  sets  my  teeth  on  edge.  As  for  Wilson 
— oh,  Wilson's  just  a  usual  kind  of  a  fool,  like 
myself.  Hello,  where  are  my  newspapers — and 
what  in  thunder  makes  it  so  cold?  You  don't 
mean  to  say  you've  got  the  window  open?" 

Mrs.  Belmore  had  a  habit  of  airing  the  rooms 
in  the  morning,  which  her  husband  approved 
of  theoretically,  and  combated  intensely  in 
[97] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

practice.  After  the  window  was  banged  shut 
she  could  hear  him  rattling  at  the  furnace  be- 
low to  turn  on  an  extra  flow  of  heat  before  set- 
tling down  once  more  in  comfort.  Although 
the  April  sun  was  bright,  there  was  still  a  chill 
in  the  air. 

She  looked  in  upon  him,  gowned  and  bonnet- 
ed for  church,  sweet  and  placid  of  mien,  fol- 
lowed by  two  little  girls,  brave  in  their  Sunday 
best,  all  big  hats  and  ribboned  hair,  and  little 
starchy  ruffles  showing  below  their  brown 
coats.  Mrs.  Belmore  stooped  over  her  hus- 
band's chair  to  kiss  him  good-by. 

"You  won't  have  to  talk  to  Edith  and  Alan 
at  all,"  she  said  as  if  continuing  the  conversa- 
tion from  where  they  had  left  off.  "All  we 
have  to  do  is  to  let  them  have  the  parlor  or  the 
library.  They'll  entertain  each  other." 

"Oh,  don't  you  bother  about  that.  Now  go 
ahead  or  you'll  be  late,  and  don't  forget  to  say 
your  prayers  for  me,  too.  That's  right,  always 
go  to  church  with  your  mother,  girlies." 

"I  wish  you  were  going,  too."  Mrs.  Belmore 
looked  at  her  husband  lingeringly. 

"I  wish  I  were,  petty,"  said  Mr.  Belmore 
with  a  prompt  mendacity  so  evidently  inspired 
by  affection  that  his  wife  condoned  it  at  once. 

She  thought  of  him  more  than  once  during 
the  service  with  generous  satisfaction  in  his 
comfortable  morning.  She  wished  she  had 
[98] 


The  Happiest  Time 


thought  it  right  to  remain  at  home,  too,  as  she 
did  sometimes,  but  there  were  the  children  to 
be  considered.  But  she  and  Herbert  would 
have  the  afternoon  together,  and  take  part  of 
it  to  see  about  planting  the  garden,  a  plot  twen- 
ty feet  square  in  the  rear  of  the  suburban  villa. 
The  Sunday  visit  to  the  garden  was  almost 
a  sacrament.  They  might  look  at  it  on  other 
days,  but  it  was  only  on  Sunday,  beginning 
with  the  early  spring,  that  husband  and  wife 
strolled  around  the  little  patch  together,  first 
planning  where  to  start  the  summer  crop  of 
vegetables  and  afterwards  watching  the  green 
things  poking  their  spikes  up  through  the  mold, 
and  growing,  growing.  He  did  the  planting 
and  working  in  the  long  light  evenings  after 
he  came  home,  while  she  held  the  papers  of 
seeds  for  him,  but  it  was  only  on  Sunday  that 
he  could  really  watch  the  green  things  grow, 
and  learn  to  know  each  separate  leaf  intimately, 
and  count  the  blossoms  on  the  beans  and  the 
cucumbers.  From  the  pure  pleasure  of  the  first 
radish,  through  all  the  various  wiltings  and 
shrivelings  incident  to  amateur  gardening  in 
summer  deluge  and  drought,  to  the  triumphant 
survival  of  tomato  plants  and  cucumber  vines, 
running  riot  over  everything  in  the  fall  of  the 
year,  the  little  garden  played  its  old  part  as 
paradise  to  these  two,  who  became  more  fully 
one  in  the  watching  of  the  miracle  of  growth. 
[991 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

When  they  gathered  the  pears  from  the  little 
tree  in  the  corner  of  the  plot,  before  the  frost, 
and  picked  the  few  little  green  tomatoes  that 
remained  on  the  dwindling  stems,  it  was  like 
garnering  a  store  of  peaceful  happiness.  Every 
stage  of  the  garden  was  a  romance.  Mrs.  Bel- 
more  could  go  to  church  without  her  husband, 
but  to  have  him  survey  the  garden  without  her 
would  have  been  the  touch  beyond. 

It  must  be  horrid,  anyway,  she  thought,  to 
have  to  go  every  morning  into  town  in  those 
smoky  cars  and  crowded  ferry-boats;  just  to 
run  into  town  twice  a  week  tired  her  out.  Now 
he  would  have  finished  the  paper — now  little 
Dorothy  would  have  come  in,  red  cheeked 
from  her  walk,  to  kiss  daddy  before  her  nap — 
now  he  must  be  pottering  around  among  his 
possessions  and  looking  out  for  her.  She  knew 
so  well  how  he  would  look  when  he  came  to 
the  door  to  meet  her.  The  sudden  sight  of 
either  one  to  the  other  always  shed  a  reflected 
light,  like  the  glow  of  the  sun.  It  was  with  a 
feeling  of  wonder  that  she  marked  its  disap- 
pearance, after  a  brief  gleam,  as  he  not  only 
opened  the  door,  but  came  out  on  the  piazza,  to 
greet  her,  and  closed  it  behind  him. 

"They're  in  there— Edith  and  Alan."  He 
pointed  over  his  shoulder  with  his  thumb.  "I 
thought  they  weren't  coming  until  after  din- 
ner." 

[100] 


The  Happiest  Time 


"Why,  they  weren't." 

"Well,  they're  in  the  parlor,  just  the  same. 
Came  out  over  an  hour  ago.  Great  Scott,  I 
wished  I'd  gone  with  you.  I'm  worn  out." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  stayed  with 
them  all  the  time!"  Mrs.  Belmore  looked 
scandalized. 

"I  should  say  I  had;  I  couldn't  lose  'em. 
Whichever  room  I  went  to  they  followed;  at 
least,  she  did,  and  he  came  after.  I  went  from 
pillar  to  post,  I  give  you  my  word,  petty,  but 
Edith  had  me  by  the  neck;  she  never  let  go 
her  grip  for  an  instant.  They  won't  speak  to 
each  other,  you  see,  only  to  me.  I  haven't  had 
a  chance  to  even  finish  the  paper.  I've  had  the 
deuce  of  a  time!  I  don't  know  what  you  are 
going  to  do  about  it." 

"Never  mind,  it  will  be  all  right  now,"  said 
Mrs.  Belmore  reassuringly.  .  She  pushed  past 
him  into  the  parlor  where  sat  a  tall,  straight 
girl  with  straight,  light  brows,  a  long  straight 
nose,  and  a  straight  mouth  with  a  droop  at  the 
corners.  In  the  room  beyond,  a  thick  set,  dark 
young  man  with  glasses  and  a  nervous  expres- 
sion was  looking  at  pictures.  It  did  not  require 
a  Solomon  to  discover  at  a  glance  how  the  land 
lay. 

If  Mrs.  Belmore  had  counted  easily  on  her 
powers  of  conciliation  she  was  disappointed  this 
time.  After  the  dinner,  whereat  the  conversa- 
[101] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

tion  was  dragged  laboriously  around  four  sides 
of  a  square,  except  when  the  two  little  girls 
made  some  slight  diversion,  and  the  several 
futile  attempts  when  the  meal  was  over  to  leave 
the  lovers  alone  together,  Mrs.  Belmore  re- 
signed herself,  perforce,  to  the  loss  of  her  cher- 
ished afternoon. 

"It's  no  use,  we'll  have  to  give  up  the  read- 
ing," she  said  to  her  husband  rapidly,  in  one  of 
her  comings  and  goings.  "Perhaps  later,  dear. 
But  it's  really  dreadful,  here  we've  been  talk- 
ing of  religion  and  beet-root  sugar  and  small- 
pox, when  anyone  can  see  that  her  heart  is 
breaking." 

"I  think  he  is  getting  the  worst  of  it,"  said 
Mr.  Belmore  impartially. 

"Oh,  it  won't  hurt  him." 

"Well,  you've  given  them  plenty  of  oppor- 
tunities to  make  up." 

"Yes,  but  he  doesn't  know  how." 

She  added  in  a  louder  tone,  "You  take  Mr. 
Wilson  up  to  your  den  for  a  while,  Herbert, 
Ethel  and  I  are  going  to  have  a  cozy  little  time 
with  the  children,  aren't  we,  dear?" 

"Have  a  cigar  ?"  said  Mr.  Belmore  as  the  two 
men  seated  themselves  comfortably  in  a  couple 
of  wooden  armchairs  in  the  sunny  little  apart- 
ment hung  with  a  miscellaneous  collection  of 
guns,  swords,  and  rods,  the  drawing  of  a 
bloated  trout  and  a  dusty  pair  of  antlers. 
[102] 


The  Happiest  Time 


"Thank  you,  I'm  not  smoking  now,"  said 
Mr.  Wilson  with  a  hungry  look  at  the  open  box 
on  the  table  beside  him. 

"Oh!"  said  his  host  genially,  "so  you're  at 
that  stage  of  the  game.  Well,  I've  been  there 
myself.  You  have  my  sympathy.  But  this 
won't  last,  you  know." 

"Does  your  wife  like  smoking?" 

"Loves  it,"  said  Mr.  Belmore,  sinking  the 
fact  of  his  official  limit  to  four  cigars  a  day. 
"That  is,  of  course,  she  thinks  it's  a  dirty  hab- 
it, and  unhealthy,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
you  know,  but  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  to 
her — not  a  pin's  worth.  Cheer  up,  old  fellow, 
you'll  get  to  this  place  too." 

"Looks  like  it,"  said  the  other  bitterly. 
"Here  I  haven't  seen  her  for  a  week — I  came 
two  hundred  miles  on  purpose  yesterday,  and 
now  she  won't  even  look  at  me.  I  don't  know 
what's  the  matter — haven't  the  least  idea — and 
I  can't  get  her  to  tell  me.  I  have  to  be  off  to- 
morrow at  seven  o'clock,  too — I  call  it  pretty 
hard  lines." 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Mr.  Belmore  judicially, 
knitting  his  brows  as  if  burrowing  into  the  past 
as  he  smoked.  "Perhaps  I  can  help  you  out. 
What  have  you  been  writing  to  her  ?  Telling 
her  all  about  what  you've  been  doing,  and  just 
sending  your  love  at  the  end  ?  They  don't  like 
that,  you  know." 

[103] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

Mr.  Wilson  shook  his  head.  "No,  upon  my 
soul  I've  done  nothing  but  tell  her  how  I — 
how  I  was  looking  forward  to — oh,  hang  it, 
Belmore,  the  letters  have  been  all  right,  I  know 
that." 

"H'm,"  said  Mr.  Belmore,  "there's  got  to 
be  something  back  of  it,  you  know.  Seen  any 
girls  since  you've  been  gone?" 

Mr.  Wilson  hastened  to  shake  his  head  more 
emphatically  than  before.  "Not  one,"  he  as- 
severated with  the  relief  of  complete  innocence. 
"Didn't  even  meet  a  soul  I  knew,  except 
Brower — you  remember  Dick  Brower?  I  went 
into  a  jeweler's  to  get  my  glasses  mended  and 
found  him  buying  a  souvenir  spoon  for  his 
fiancee." 

"O — o — h!"  said  Mr.  Belmore  intelligently, 
"and  did  you  buy  a  present  for  Edith  ?" 

"No,  I  didn't.  She  made  me  promise  not  to 
buy  anything  more  for  her;  she  thinks  I'm 
spending  too  much  money,  and  that  I  ought  to 
economize." 

"And  did  you  tell  her  about  Brower?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  did — as  we  were  coming 
out  this  morning." 

Mr.  Wilson  stared  blankly  at  his  friend. 

"Chump!"  said  Mr.  Belmore.     He  bit  off 

the  end  of  a  new  cigar  and  threw  it  away. 

"Wilson,  my  poor  fellow,  you're  so  besotted  in 

ignorance  that  I  don't  know  how  to  let  the 

[104] 


The  Happiest  Time 


light  in  on  you.  A  man  is  a  fool  by  the  side  of 
his  fiancee,  anyhow." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  the  be- 
wildered Wilson  stiffly.  "7  don't  know  what 
I'm  to  do." 

"No,  of  course  you  don't — but  Edith  does — 
you  can  just  trust  her  for  that.  A  girl  always 
knows  what  a  man  ought  to  do — she  can  give 
him  cards  and  spades  and  beat  him  every  time." 

"Then  why  doesn't  she  tell  me  what  she 
wants?  I  asked  her  to,  particularly." 

"Oh,  no !  She'll  tell  you  everything  the  op- 
posite— that  is,  half  the  time.  She'll  put  every 
obstacle  possible  in  your  way,  to  see  if  you're 
man  enough  to  walk  over  'em;  that's  what  she 
wants  to  find  out;  if  you're  man  enough  to 
have  your  own  way  in  spite  of  her;  and,  of 
course,  if  you  aren't,  you're  an  awful  disap- 
pointment." 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  Mr.  Wilson  deeply, 
after  an  awestruck  pause.  "Half  the  time,  you 
say.  But  how  am  I  to  find  out  when  she  means 
— I  give  you  my  word,  Belmore,  that  I  thought 
— I  suppose  I  could  have  brought  her  a  small 
present,  anyway,  in  spite  of  what  she  said;  a 
souvenir  spoon  —  but  she  hates  souvenir 
spoons." 

"You'll  have  to  cipher  it  out  for  yourself,  old 
man,"  said  Mr.  Belmore.  "7  don't  set  out  to 
interpret  any  woman's  moods.  I  only  give  you 
[Jos] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

cold,  bare  facts.  But  if  I  were  you,"  he  added 
impartially,  "I'd  go  down  after  a  while  and 
try  and  get  her  alone,  you  know,  and  say  some- 
thing. You  can,  if  you  try."  A  swish  of  skirts 
outside  of  the  open  door  made  Mr.  Wilson 
jump  forward  as  Mrs.  Belmore  came  in  sight 
with  her  friend.  The  latter  had  her  arm  around 
the  older  woman,  and  her  form  drooped  toward 
her  as  they  passed  the  two  men.  The  eyes  of 
the  girl  were  red,  and  her  lips  had  a  patient 
quiver.  Mr.  Wilson  gave  an  exclamation  and 
sprang  forward  as  she  disappeared  in  the  fur- 
ther room. 

It  was  some  hours  later  that  the  husband  and 
wife  met  unexpectedly  upon  the  stairs  with 
a  glad  surprise. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  it's  you — alone!"  he 
whispered. 

"Wait — is  she  coming  up  ?"  They  clutched 
each  other  spasmodically  as  they  listened  to  the 
sound  of  a  deflecting  footstep.  There  was  a 
breathless  moment,  and  then  the  chords  of  a 
funeral  march  boomed  forth  upon  the  air.  The 
loud  pedal  was  doing  its  best  to  supplement 
those  long  and  strenuous  fingers. 

The  listeners  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"He's  gone  to  the  station  for  a  time  table," 

whispered  the  husband  with  a  delighted  grin; 

"though  I  can  stand  him  all  right.    We  had  a 

nice  walk  with  the  little  girls,  after  he  got  tired 

[106] 


The  Happiest  Time 


of  playing  hide  and  seek.  I  wished  you  were 
with  us.  You  must  be  about  used  up.  How 
are  you  getting  along  with  her  ?" 

"Oh,  pretty  well."  She  let  herself  be  drawn 
down  on  the  hall  window  seat  at  the  top  of  the 
landing.  "You  see,  Edith  really  feels  dread- 
fully, poor  girl." 

"What  about?" 

"Herbert,  she  isn't  really  sure  that  she  loves 
him." 

"Isn't  sure !  After  they've  been  engaged  for 
a  year !" 

"That's  just  it.  She  says  if  they  had  been 
married  out  of  hand,  in  the  first  flush  of  the 
novelty,  she  wouldn't  have  had  time,  perhaps, 
to  have  any  doubts.  But  it's  the  seeing  him  all 
the  time  that's  made  her  think." 

"Made  her  think  what?" 

"Whether  she  loves  him  or  not;  whether 
they  are  really  suited.  I  remember  that  I  used 
to  feel  that  way  about  you,  dear.  Oh,  you 
know,  Herbert,  it's  a  very  serious  thing  for  a 
girl.  She  says  she  knows  her  whole  life  is  at 
stake;  she  thinks  about  it  all  the  time." 

"How  about  his?" 

"Well,  that's  what  I  said,"  admitted  Mrs. 
Belmore.  "She  says  that  she  feels  that  he  is 
so  rational  and  self -poised  that  she  makes  little 
difference  in  his  life  either  way — it  has  come  to 
her  all  at  once.  She  says  his  looking  at  every- 
[107] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

thing  in  a  matter-of-fact  way  just  chills  her; 
she  longs  for  a  whole-souled  enthusiasm  that 
can  sweep  everything  before  it.  She  feels  that 
if  they  are  married  she  will  have  to  keep  up  the 
ideal  for  both  of  them,  and  she  doesn't  know 
whether  she  can." 

"No,  she  can't,"  said  Mr.  Belmore. 

"She  says  she  could  if  she  loved  him 
enough,"  pursued  Mrs.  Belmore.  "It's  the  if 
that  kills  her.  She  says  that  when  she  wakes 
up  in  the  morning  that  she  feels  as  if  she'd  die 
if  she  didn't  see  him  before  night,  and  when 
she  docs  see  him  it's  all  a  dreadful  disappoint- 
ment to  her;  she  can't  talk  to  him  at  all,  she 
feels  perfectly  hard  and  stony;  then,  the  mo- 
ment he's  gone,  she's  crazy  to  have  him  back 
again.  She  cries  herself  thin  over  it." 

"She's  pretty  bony,  anyway,"  said  Mr.  Bel- 
more  impartially. 

"Even  his  appearance  changes  to  her.  She 
says  sometimes  he  looks  like  a  Greek  god,  so 
that  she  could  go  down  on  her  knees  to  him, 
and  at  other  times —  Once  she  happened  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  him  in  a  horrid  red  sweater, 
polishing  his  shoes,  and  she  said  she  didn't  get 
over  it  for  weeks,  he  looked  positively  ordinary, 
like  some  of  the  men  you  see  in  the  trolley 
cars." 

"Oh,  good  gracious!"  protested  Mr.  Bel- 
[108] 


The  Happiest  Time 


more  feebly.    "Oh,  good  gracious,  petty !  This 
is  too  much." 

"Hush — don't  laugh  so  loud — '•be  quiet,"  said 
his  wife  anxiously. 

"If  Wilson  ever  looks  like  a  Greek  god  to 
her,  she's  all  right,  she  loves  him — you  can  tell 
her  so  for  me.  Wilson!  Here  are  we  sitting 
up  here  like  a  pair  of  lovers,  and  they — 
Hello!" 

The  hall  door  opened  and  shut,  the  piano  lid 
closed  simultaneously  with  a  bang,  and  there 
was  a  swirl  of  skirts  again  towards  the  stair- 
case that  scattered  the  guilty  pair  on  the  land- 
ing. The  hostess  heaved  a  patient  sigh. 

"They  shall  speak,"  said  Mrs.  Belmore  when 
another  hour  had  gone  with  the  situation  still 
unchanged.  Her  gentle  voice  had  a  note  of 
determination.  "I  can't  understand  why  he 
doesn't  make  her.  She  is  literally  crying  her 
eyes  out,  because  the  whole  day  has  been  lost. 
Why  didn't  you  send  him  into  the  parlor  for 
a  book  as  I  told  you  to,  when  I  came  up  to  take 
care  of  Dorothy?" 

"He  wouldn't  go — he  said  he  wasn't  doing 
the  kindergarten  act  any  more.  Hang  it,  I 
don't  blame  him.  A  man  objects  to  being  made 
a  fool  of  before  people,  and  he's  tired  of  it. 
Here  he  goes  off  again  to-morrow  for  two 
weeks,  and  she  with  no  more  heart  than — " 

"Where  is  he  now?"  asked  Mrs.  Belmore. 
[109] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"Upstairs  in  my  room,  smoking." 

"Smoking!  I  thought  he'd  promised  her 
solemnly  not  to." 

"Yes,  he  did;  but  he  says  he  doesn't  care  a — 
red  apple;  he's  going  to  have  some  comfort  out 
of  the  day.  I've  left  him  with  a  box  of  cigars ; 
good  ones,  too.  He's  having  the  time  of  his 
life." 

"O — o — h !"  said  Mrs.  Belmore  with  the  rapt 
expression  of  one  who  sees  beyond  the  veil. 
When  she  spoke  it  was  with  impressive  slow- 
ness. "When  you  hear  me  come  downstairs 
with  Edith  and  go  in  the  parlor,  you  wait  a 
moment  and  then  bring  him  down — with  his 
cigar — into  the  library.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Belmore. 

"Oh,  Herbert !  If  she  sees  him  smoking — / 
There's  no  time  to  lose,  for  I  have  to  get  tea 
to-night.  When  I  call  you,  leave  him  and  come 
at  once,  do  you  hear?  Don't  stop  a  minute — 
just  come,  before  they  get  a  chance  to  follow." 

"You  bet  I'll  come,"  said  Mr.  Belmore,  "like 
a  bird  to  its — I  will,  really,  petty." 

That  he  nearly  knocked  her  down  by  his 
wildly  tragic  rush  when  she  called  from  the 
back  hall — "Herbert,  please  come  at  once!  I 
can't  turn  off  the  water,"  was  a  mere  detail — 
they  clung  to  each  other  in  silent  laughter,  be- 
hind the  enshrouding  portieres,  not  daring  to 
move.  The  footfall  of  the  deserted  Edith  was 
[no] 


The  Happiest  Time 


heard  advancing  from  the  front  room  to  the 
library,  and  her  clear  and  solemn  voice,  as  of 
one  actuated  only  by  the  lofty  dictates  of  duty, 
penetrated  distinctly  to  the  listeners. 

"Alan  Wilson,  is  it  possible  that  you  are 
smoking?  Have  you  broken  your  promised 
word?" 

"Well,  they're  at  it,  at  last,"  said  Mr.  Bel- 
more,  relapsing  into  a  chair  in  the  kitchen  with 
a  sigh  of  relief,  and  drawing  a  folded  news- 
paper from  his  pocket.  "I  wouldn't  be  in  his 
shoes  for  a  farm." 

"Oh,  it  will  be  all  right  now,"  said  Mrs.  Bel- 
more  serenely.  She  added  with  some  irrele- 
vancy, "I've  left  the  children  to  undress  each 
other;  they've  been  so  good.  It's  been  such  a 
different  day,  though,  from  what  we  had 
planned." 

"It's  too  bad  that  you  have  to  get  the  tea." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  that  a  bit." 

She  had  tucked  up  the  silken  skirt  of  her 
gown  and  was  deftly  measuring  out  coffee — 
after  the  swift,  preliminary  shaking  of  the  fire 
with  which  every  woman  takes  possession  of  a 
kitchen — pouring  the  water  into  the  coffee  pot 
from  the  steaming  kettle,  and  then  vibrating 
between  the  kitchen  closet  and  the  butler's  pan- 
try with  the  quick,  capable  movements  of  one 
who  knows  her  ground  thoroughly.  "Really, 
it  isn't  any  trouble.  Margaret  leaves  half  of 
[ml 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

the  things  ready,  you  know.  If  you'll  just  lift 
down  that  dish  of  salad  for  me — and  the  cold 
chicken  is  beside  it.  I  hate  to  ask  you  to  get 
up,  but —  Thank  you.  How  good  the  coffee 
smells!  I  know  you  always  like  the  coffee  I 
make." 

"You  bet  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Belmore  with  fer- 
vor. "Say,  petty,  you  don't  think  you  could 
come  out  now  and  take  a  look  at  the  garden? 
I'm  almost  sure  the  peas  are  beginning  to 
show." 

"No,  I'm  afraid  there  isn't  time.  We'll  have 
to  give  it  up  for  this  Sunday."  She  paused 
for  a  great  effort.  "If  you'd  like  to  go  by 
yourself,  dear — " 

"Wouldn't  you  mind?" 

She  paused  again,  looking  at  him  with  her 
clear-eyed  seriousness. 

"I  don't  think  I  mind  now,  but  I  might — 
afterwards." 

If  he  had  hesitated,  it  was  for  a  hardly  ap- 
preciable second.  "And  I  don't  want  to  go," 
he  protested  stoutly,  "it  wouldn't  be  the  same 
thing  at  all  without  you." 

"Everything  is  ready  now,"  said  his  wife. 

"Though  I  do  hate  to  disturb  Edith  and  Alan. 
I'll  just  run  up  and  hear  the  children  say  their 
prayers  before  I  put  those  things  on  the  table. 
If  you  would  just  take  a  look  at  the  furnace — " 

[112] 


The  Happiest  Time 


it  was  the  sentence  Mr.  Belmore  had  been 
dreading — "and  then  you  can  come  up  and  kiss 
the  children  good  night." 

Mr.  Belmore,  on  his  way  up  from  stoking, 
caught  a  glimpse  projected  from  the  parlor  mir- 
ror through  an  aperture  in  the  doorway  which 
the  portieres  had  left  uncovered.  The  reflec- 
tion was  of  a  girl,  with  tear-stained  face  and 
closed  eyes,  her  head  upon  a  young  man's 
shoulder,  while  his  lips  were  touchingly  pressed 
to  her  hair.  The  picture  might  have  been 
called  "After  the  Storm,"  the  wreckage  was  so 
plainly  apparent.  As  Mr.  Belmore  turned 
after  ascending  the  flight  of  stairs  he  came  full 
in  sight  of  another  picture,  spread  out  to  view 
in  the  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  He  stood 
unseen  in  the  shadow  regarding  it. 

His  wife  sat  in  a  low  chair  near  one  of  the 
two  white  beds;  little  Dorothy's  crib  was  in 
their  room,  beyond.  The  three  children  were 
perched  on  the  foot  of  the  nearest  bed,  white- 
gowned,  with  rosy  faces  and  neatly  brushed 
hair.  While  he  looked,  the  youngest  child  gave 
a  birdlike  flutter  and  jump,  and  lighted  on  the 
floor,  falling  on  her  knees,  with  her  bowed  head 
in  the  mother's  lap,  her  hands  upraised.  As  she 
finished  the  murmured  prayer,  helped  by  the 
tender  mother-voice,  she  rose  and  stood  to  one 
side,  in  infantine  seriousness,  while  the  next 
one  spread  her  white  plumes  for  the  same  flight, 
[113] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

waiting  afterwards  in  reverent  line  with  the 
first  as  the  third  hovered  down. 

It  was  plain  to  see  from  the  mother's  face 
that  she  had  striven  to  put  all  earthly  thoughts 
aside  in  the  performance  of  this  sacred  office  of 
ministering  to  innocence ;  her  eyes  must  be  holy 
when  her  children's  looked  up  at  her  on  their 
way  to  God. 

This  was  the  little  inner  chapel,  the  Sanctu- 
ary of  Home,  where  she  was  priestess  by  divine 
right.  It  would  have  been  an  indifferent  man, 
indeed,  who  had  not  fallen  upon  his  knees  in 
spirit,  in  company  with  this  little  household  of 
faith,  in  mute  recognition  of  the  love  and  peace 
and  order  that  crowned  his  days. 

He  kissed  the  laughing  children  as  they 
clung  to  him,  before  she  turned  down  the  light. 
When  she  came  out  of  the  room  he  was  wait- 
ing for  her.  He  put  his  arm  around  her  as  he 
said,  with  the  darling  tenderness  that  made  her 
life, 

"Come  along,  old  sweetness.  We've  got  to 
go  down  and  stir  up  those  lunatics  again.  Call 
that  'the  happiest  time  of  your  life !'  We  know 
better  than  that,  don't  we,  petty?  I'll  tell  you 
what  it  is :  I'll  go  to  church  with  you  next  Sun- 
day, if  you  say  so !" 


["41 


In  the  Married  Quarters 


I  "Si 


In  the  Married  Quarters 

QR.  BROCKTON  RIVERS  watched 
the  spark  at  the  end  of  his  cigar  as 
he  held  the  short  stub  between  his 
thumb   and   forefinger.      It   was   going   out. 
While  he  had  had  that  cigar  to  smoke  his  mind 
had  been  at  rest,  for  he  knew  that  he  was  going 
to  sit  in  that  particular  angle  in  the  piazza  until 
he  finished  it,  which  would  be  about  half  past 
eight.    After  that — what? 

He  threw  away  the  cigar  and  leaned  medi- 
tatively forward  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  moon 
as  it  rose  over  the  patch  of  straggling  woods 
next  to  the  Queen  Anne  cottage  opposite  him. 
It  showed  a  deserted  piazza,  and  a  man  and  his 
wife  and  two  small  children  walking  past  it. 
The  man  walked  with  the  heavy,  shuffling  steps 
of  a  laborer,  and  the  woman,  in  a  white  shirt- 
waist and  a  dragging  skirt,  held  one  child  by 
the  hand,  while  the  other,  in  tiny  trousers,  tod- 
dled bow-leggedly  behind.  As  they  vanished 
down  the  street,  two  silent  men  on  bicycles  sped 
past,  their  little  lamps  twinkling  in  the  shadows; 
then  half  a  dozen  more,  laughing  and  calling  to 
each  other,  then  a  swiftly  driven  buggy  that 
sent  the  dust  flying  up  on  the  vines  that  were 
already  laden  with  it.  The  prevailing  smell  of 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

the  humid  night  was  of  damp  weeds.  It  was 
also  very  hot. 

There  were  no  lights  in  the  house  opposite, 
nor  in  the  one  next  to  it,  or  in  the  one  next  to 
that,  nor  were  there  any,  as  he  knew  without 
seeing,  in  either  of  the  houses  next  to  his  own. 
From  farther  down  the  street  came  the  sound 
of  a  jangling  piano,  obstructed  intermittently 
by  the  loud,  unvaried  barking  of  a  melancholy 
dog.  From  nearer  by  the  persistent  wail  of  a 
very  young  infant,  protesting  already  against 
existence  in  such  a  hot  world,  became  more  and 
more  unbearable  each  instant.  Mr.  Rivers  ab- 
sent-mindedly killed  three  feasting  mosquitoes 
at  a  blow,  and  rose  to  his  feet  with  determina- 
tion. He  could  stay  here  no  longer.  Should 
he  go  out,  or  retire  to  his  room  in  the  doubtful 
comfort  of  extreme  negligee,  and  read? 

It  will,  of  course,  be  evident  to  the  meanest 
suburban  intelligence  that  the  month  was  Au- 
gust, and  that  Mrs.  Rivers  was  away,  as  were 
most  of  her  immediate  neighbors,  enjoying  a 
holiday  by  either  mountains  or  seashore.  Riv- 
ers could  see  in  imagination  how  glorious  this 
moonlight  became  as  the  waves  rolled  into  its 
path  and  broke  there  on  the  wet  sands  into  a 
delicious  rush  and  swirl  of  silvery  sparkling 
foam.  He  could  smell  the  very  perfume  of  the 
sea,  and  feel  the  cold  breath  that  the  water  ex- 
hales with  one's  face  close  down  by  it,  no  mat- 
[118] 


In  the  Married  Quarters 

ter  how  warm  the  night.  It  had  been  a  pretty 
bad  day  in  town.  He  was  glad,  very  glad,  that 
Elizabeth  had  the  change.  She  needed  it.  He 
had  said  this  stoutly  to  himself  many  times  in 
the  last  six  weeks,  and  knew  that  it  was  true. 
She  had  protested  against  going,  and  only 
yielded  at  last  for  the  children's  sake  and  in 
wifely  obedience  to  lawful  masculine  author- 
ity. He  had  insisted  on  sleeping  in  the  house 
alone,  in  defiance  of  her  pleading,  alleging  an 
affinity  for  his  own  bed,  his  own  belongings, 
and  an  individual  bath  tub.  A  woman  came 
once  a  week  to  sweep  and  straighten  up  the 
house.  He  had  repeatedly  declared  there  would 
be  really  nothing  to  do  after  business  hours  but 
to  go  around  and  enjoy  himself.  He  had  made 
her  almost  envious  of  these  prospective  joys. 
He  would  take  little  trips  to  Manhattan  Beach 
with  "the  boys"  and  go  to  Bronxville  to  see 
Tom  Westfield,  as  he  had  been  meaning  to  for 
five  years,  and  visit  the  roof  garden  with  the 
Danas,  who  were  on  from  St.  Louis,  and  take 
dinner  at  the  Cafe  Ruritania.  On  the  between 
nights  he  would  visit  the  neighbors.  All  these 
things  he  had  done,  more  or  less  disappointing- 
ly, but  what  should  he  do  to-night  ? 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Rivers,  but  have  you 
any  paregoric  in  the  house?  We've  got  to  get 
something  to  quiet  the  baby." 

A  tall,  thin,  wearied-looking  young  man  had 
[119] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

come  up  the  steps,  hidden  by  the  vines  in  which 
dwellers  in  a  mosquito  country  are  wont  to 
picturesquely  embower  themselves,  defiant  of 
results. 

"Why,  how  are  you,  Parker?"  said  Rivers 
cordially.  "Paregoric  is  it  that  you  want? 
Come  inside,  and  we'll  have  a  look  for  it,  old 
man."  He  led  the  way,  scratching  matches  as 
he  went  to  relieve  the  darkness,  dropping 
them  on  the  floor  as  they  went  out,  and  finally 
lighting  the  gas  in  the  butler's  pantry. 

"My  wife  keeps  the  medicines  on  the  top 
shelf  here  to  be  out  of  the  way  of  the  children," 
he  explained.  "I  don't  know  about  the  pare- 
goric, though.  I  seem  to  remember  that  she 
didn't  believe  much  in  using  it  for  babies." 

"We've  had  a  fight  with  the  nurse  about  it,'* 
said  the  other  man,  gnawing  at  a  very  light 
mustache  as  he  leaned  against  the  door,  "but 
Great  Scott,  Rivers,  we've  got  to  do  something. 
7  would  have  murdered  anybody  whose  child 
cried  like  this  one.  We've  been  complained  of 
as  it  is.  That's  paregoric,  isn't  it  ?" 

"It  was,  but  the  bottle's  empty,"  said  Riv- 
ers, who  was  standing  on  the  rung  of  a  chair, 
holding  out  a  vial  now  and  then  from  an  inner 
recess  to  read  the  name  on  it  "That's  another 
empty  bottle — and  here's  another  empty  bottle 
— and,  this  is — another.  Bottle  of  sewing 
machine  oil.  Prescription  for  neuralgia,  178, 

[120] 


In  the  Married  Quarters 

902,  empty.  Bottle  of  glycerine — confound  the 
thing!  the  cork  was  out  of  it;  get  my  handker- 
chief for  me  out  of  my  pocket,  will  you  ?  Pre- 
scription for  hair  tonic;  empty  bottle — another 
empty  prescription  bottle — dregs  of  cough  med- 
icine. What  in  thunder  does  Bess  want  with 
all  these  empty  bottles?  I'm  awfully  sorry, 
Parker,  but  we  don't  seem  to  have  the  stuff 
you  want,  or  any  other,  for  that  matter." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Parker.  "I'll  ride  down 
to  the  village  and  get  some.  I'd  have  gone 
there  first,  but  the  tire  of  my  wheel  wants  blow- 
ing up." 

"I'd  lend  you  my  wheel,  but  it's  at  the  shop," 
called  Rivers  as  they  disappeared  out  of  the 
door. 

He  put  the  bottles  back,  upsetting,  as  he  did 
so,  a  package  of  some  white  powder,  out  of 
which  ran  three  cockroaches.  As  he  stooped 
to  gather  it  up  again  in  the  paper  he  disturbed 
a  half-eaten  peach  which  he  remembered  leav- 
ing there  the  night  before,  and  a  small  colony 
of  ants  that  had  made  their  dwelling  in  it  scut- 
tled cheerily  around.  He  uttered  an  exclama- 
tion of  disgust,  and  shut  the  door  of  the  butler's 
pantry  upon  them.  The  whole  house  seemed 
given  up  to  a  plague  of  insects,  utterly  un- 
known in  the  reign  of  its  careful  mistress.  In 
spite  of  screens,  small  stinging  mosquitoes 
whizzed  out  from  everything  he  touched;  spi- 

[121} 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

ders  hung  down  from  webs  in  the  ceiling,  and  a 
moth  had  flown  from  his  closet  that  very  morn- 
ing. He  kept  the  blinds  and  windows  closed 
while  he  was  away  all  day;  he  had  begun  by 
leaving  them  open,  but  a  slanting  shower  had 
made  havoc  in  his  absence  and  also  flooded  the 
cellar  through  the  open  cellar  door.  It  had  not 
dried  up  since,  and  he  was  sure  that  there  were 
fleas  down  there. 

There  was  a  deadly  hot  damp  and  silence  in 
the  dining  room  and  parlor  as  he  came  through 
them,  and  the  same  unnatural  atmosphere  in 
the  rooms  above  as  he  drearily  invaded  them 
for  a  clean  collar.  Every  place  was  shut  up 
and  in  order;  the  tops  of  the  dressing  tables 
even  were  bare  save  for  the  clean  towel  laid 
over  each.  His  own  room  was  in  an  ugly,  di- 
sheveled confusion,  and  though  his  windows 
were  open,  no  air  came  through  the  wire 
screens.  He  opened  a  closet  door  inadvertently, 
and  the  sight  of  a  pink  kimono  of  his  wife's, 
and  the  hats  of  the  two  little  boys  hanging  up 
neatly  beside  it,  emphasized  his  solitude.  His 
latent  idea  of  spending  the  rest  of  the  evening 
at  home  was  gone  from  him — he  felt  that  he 
could  not  get  out  of  this  accursed  house  quickly 
enough,  although  he  had  not  made  up  his  mind 
where  to  go;  he  did  not  feel  up  to  cheering  the 
sick  man  in  the  next  street,  or  equal  to  a  gentle 
literary  conversation  with  the  two  elderly  ladies 

[122} 


In  the  Married  Quarters 

beyond  who  had  known  his  mother.  He  want- 
ed to  go  somewhere  where  he  could  smoke  and 
have  some  pleasing  light  drink  for  refreshment, 
and  be  cheered  and  amused  himself. 

The  Callenders !  If  he  only  had  his  wheel — 
it  was  nine  o'clock  now,  and  the  place  was  away 
over  on  the  other  side  of  town.  Never  mind, 
he  would  go,  and  chance  their  being  at  home 
and  out  of  bed  when  he  got  there.  Anything  to 
get  away  from  this  loathsome  place,  although 
coming  back  to  it  again  seemed  suddenly  an 
impossible  horror.  He  wondered  if  he  were 
getting  ill.  The  night  before — 

As  he  walked,  the  shadows  of  the  moonlight 
lengthened  his  long  legs,  and  their  dragging 
strides.  His  face,  with  its  short  brown  beard 
and  the  hollows  under  his  dark  eyes,  was  bent 
forward.  He  figured  out  anew  the  income 
there  would  be  from  his  insurance  money,  and 
how  it  might  be  supplemented  for  Bess  and  the 
children.  Clearly,  he  would  have  to  earn  more 
before  he  died.  And  oh,  the  burden,  the  bur- 
den, the  burden  was  his !  The  thought  leaped 
out  like  a  visible  thing.  Her  sweet  presence, 
her  curling  hair,  her  dimples,  her  loving  femi- 
nine inconsequence,  with  the  innocent,  laugh- 
ing faces  of  the  little  boys,  overlaid  the  daily 
care  for  him,  but  with  these  appointed  Lighten- 
ers  of  Life  away  it  loomed  up  into  a  hideously 
exaggerated  specter  that  seemed  to  have  always 
[123] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

had  its  hand  upon  his  fearsome  heart,  and  only 
pressed  a  little  closer  upon  him  now  in  this  hot 
windless  night.  Even  his  wilted  collar  partook 
of  the  tragic;  he  might  as  well  have  kept  on  the 
first  one. 

"Hello!  Hello!  Where  are  you  going? 
This  is  the  place."  A  shout  of  laughter  accom- 
panied the  words.  "Come  up,  brother,  we've 
been  waiting  for  you !" 

He  looked  up  to  see  that  he  was  in  front  of 
Callender's  house,  and  that  the  piazza,  a  large 
square  end  of  which  was  screened  off  into  a 
room,  held  a  company  in  jovial  mood,  under 
moonlight  as  bright  as  day.  The  women  were 
in  white,  with  half  bare  neck  and  arms,  rocking 
and  fanning  themselves,  and  the  men  in  tennis 
shirts  and  belts,  two  of  them  smoking  pipes, 
and  the  other  a  cigar.  A  tray,  holding  a 
large  crystal  bowl  and  glasses,  stood  on  a  bam- 
boo table  at  one  side,  half  shielded  by  jars  of 
palms  whose  spiked  shadows  carpeted  the  floor 
and  projected  themselves  across  the  white  dress 
and  arms  of  Mrs.  Callender,  while  she  held  the 
door  open  with  one  hand,  and  half  welcomed, 
half  dragged  him  in  with  the  other,  amid  a 
chorus  of  voices, 

"Come  in,  come  in,  you're  one  of  us." 

"If  you  let  a  mosquito  in —  Take  that  chair 
by  Mrs.  Weir  if  you  feel  up  to  it;  she  wants  to 
be  entertained." 


In  the  Married  Quarters 

"I  feel  up  to  anything — now,"  said  Rivers, 
taking  with  alacrity  the  seat  allotted  to  him, 
after  shaking  hands  with  pretty  Mrs.  Waring, 
who  lived  next  door,  and  her  cousin,  Mrs. 
Weir.  "Same  old  crowd,  I  see." 

The  laughter  broke  out  anew  as  his  wander- 
ing eyes  took  tally  of  the  group,  and  he  said, 
"Where's  Callender?  and  Weir?  What's  the 
joke?" 

"Oh,  don't  ask  for  any  woman's  husband  or 
any  man's  wife,"  said  Mrs.  Callender  despair- 
ingly, with  her  graceful  figure  reclining  back  in 
the  low  chair.  "Can't  you  see  that  we're  all  de- 
tached ?"  Her  charming  smile  suddenly  broke 
forth.  "It's  really  too  absurd." 

"No !"  said  Rivers,  a  light  dawning  on  him. 
"Nichols,  you  don't  mean  that  you  are  on 
the  waiting  list  too?" 

Mr.  Nichols,  a  large  man  with  a  grizzled 
head,  nodded  and  helped  himself  to  the  con- 
tents of  the  suggestive  bowl.  "The  missus  and 
the  kids  went  off  last  week;  I'm  detained  for  a 
while  longer.  As  for  Callender;  he  got  a  sum- 
mons from  the  company,  and  he's  half  way  to 
Chicago  by  this  time,  I  hope.  I  came  over  on 
purpose  to  tell  his  last  words  to  his  wife,  who 
didn't  want  them." 

"Ned  had  already  brought  them,"  said  Mrs. 
Callender,  turning  to  the  tall,  quiet  man  of  the 
cigar,  Mr.  Atwood,  who  was  her  brother.  "It's 
E"S] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

such  a  mercy  that  he  happened  to  come  on,  or 
I'd  have  been  here  all  alone." 

"Looks  like  it,"  said  Mr.  Porter,  a  stout  fair 
gentleman  with  a  cool  gray  eye,  a  bald  head, 
and  a  gurgling  laugh.  "What  do  you  think, 
Rivers,  these  girls  here" — he  waved  his  hand — 
"had  been  counting  on  seeing  the  whole  lot  of 
us  to-night,  and  brewed  that  lemonade  on  pur- 
pose." 

"Everyone  has  come  now  but  the  Martin- 
dales,"  said  Mrs.  Weir,  a  little  woman  with 
loosely  piled  dark  hair,  and  a  gentle,  winning 
voice,  occasionally  diversified  with  a  surprising 
shriek  of  laughter. 

"The  Martindales!  Why,  they  only  re- 
turned this  evening — I  met  them  on  the  boat," 
said  Rivers. 

"Yes,  we  know  that,  but  one  of  them  will  be 
over  here  just  the  same,"  said  Mrs.  Callender 
placidly.  "They'll  want  to  see  what  we're  do- 
ing. Do  somebody  pay  a  little  attention  to 
Mrs.  Waring;  she  hasn't  said  a  word  for  half 
an  hour.  I  believe  she's  hoping  that  Henry'll 
be  too  homesick  to  stay  away." 

"Not  quite,"  said  Mrs.  Waring  with  a  little 
tremble  of  her  lower  lip. 

"Nice,  kind  little  woman  you  are,"  said  Por- 
ter severely.  "Want  to  enjoy  yourself  think- 
ing how  unhappy  Waring  is.  Well,  I'm  glad 
[126] 


In  the  Married  Quarters 

he  went,  and  I  hope  he'll  stay  until  he's  well; 
if  any  man  needed  a  change,  he  did." 

"He  would  have  taken  me  with  him  if  I  could 
have  left  the  children,"  murmured  Mrs.  War- 
ing. 

"Yes,  the  children  win  every  time,"  said 
Porter  with  easy  philosophy.  "You  think 
you're  important,  my  brothers,  until  you're  con- 
fronted with  your  own  offspring,  and  then 
you're  not  in  it." 

"I  don't  see,"  said  Mr.  Nichols,  filling  his 
pipe  again,  "why  a  man's  family  should  stay 
in  town  and  broil  because  he  has  to.  It  would- 
n't be  any  satisfaction  to  me,  I  know  that. 
My  little  girls  write  to  me  every  day." 

"I  remember,"  said  Rivers,  leaning  forward, 
"once  when  Bess  and  I  took  a  trip  together  we 
had  to  come  home  just  when  the  fishing  was  at 
its  height,  because  she  imagined  what  it  would 
be  like  if  a  menagerie  broke  loose  and  a  tiger 
got  at  little  Brook  when  he  was  asleep  in  his 
crib.  She  said  she  knew  it  was  perfectly  ab- 
surd, but  she  couldn't  stand  it  a  moment  longer. 
So  we  came  home." 

He  laughed  tenderly  at  the  reminiscence,  and 
the  other  men  laughed  with  him,  but  the  wom- 
en, even  Mrs.  Callender,  who  had  no  children, 
were  serious,  and  Mrs.  Weir  said,  as  if  speak- 
ing for  the  rest, 

"Yes,  one  does  feel  that  way  sometimes." 
[127] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

The  men  looked  at  each  other  and  nodded, 
as  in  the  presence  of  something  known  of  old, 
something  to  be  smiled  at,  and  yet  reverenced. 
The  fierce  maternal  impulses  of  his  wife  were 
divine  to  Rivers,  he  loved  her  the  more  for  her 
foolishness;  it  seemed  fitting,  and  all  he  could 
expect,  that  the  children  should  be  her  passion, 
as  she  was  his.  If  he  had  once  dreamed  that  it 
would  be  otherwise,  he  knew  better  now. 
Women  were  to  be  taken  care  of  and  loved  for 
their  very  limitations,  even  if  one  bore  a  little 
sense  of  loss  and  soreness  forever  in  one's  own 
heart.  What  could  they  know? 

"Why  don't  you  take  a  vacation,  Mr.  Riv- 
ers?" asked  Mrs.  Weir  later  as  the  others  had 
fallen  into  general  conversation.  "You  look  as 
if  you  needed  it.  Mr.  Nichols  says  it  was  dread- 
ful in  town  to-day;  forty-seven  heat  prostra- 
tions." 

"Oh,  I  can't  get  off,"  said  Rivers  with  un- 
conscious weariness  in  his  voice.  "It  makes  an 
awful  lot  of  difference  when  you're  running 
the  business  yourself.  If  I  were  working  for 
somebody  else  I'd  take  my  little  two  weeks  the 
way  my  own  clerks  do,  without  caring  a  hang 
what  became  of  the  concern  in  my  absence.  I 
thought  I  was  going  to  get  up  to  Maine  over 
the  Fourth,  and  after  all  I  couldn't  leave  in 
time.  It's  quite  a  journey,  you  know.  Bess 
and  the  boys  were  as  disappointed  as  I  was," 
[128] 


In  the  Married  Quarters 

he  added  conscientiously.  "But  they're  getting 
along  finely.  Sam  and  Jack  are  learning  to 
swim,  she  says — pretty  good  for  little  shavers 
of  five  and  six !  They're  as  brown  as  Indians. 
She  says — "  he  began  to  laugh  as  he  repeated 
confidentially  some  anecdotes  of  their  prowess 
to  which  Mrs.  Weir  apparently  listened  with 
the  deeply  interested  attention  that  is  balm  to 
the  family  exile,  only  asking  him  after  a  while 
irrelevantly,  as  he  pushed  back  the  hair  from 
his  forehead, 

"How  did  you  get  that  ugly  cut  on  your  tem- 
ple ?" 

Even  in  the  moonlight  she  could  see  his 
face  flush. 

"Oh,  come,  Rivers,"  said  Atwcod,  who  was 
passing,  "make  up  some  story,  for  the  credit 
of  mankind." 

"Then  you  might  as  well  have  the  truth,  I 
suppose,"  said  Rivers,  laughing,  yet  embar- 
rassed. "It's  really  nothing,  though;  I  felt  diz- 
zy and  queer  when  I  went  to  bed  last  night.  I 
suppose  it  was  just  the  heat,  and  I  have  had  a 
good  deal  to  carry  in  a  business  way  lately.  I 
found  myself  at  daylight  this  morning  lying  on 
the  floor  with  my  head  by  the  edge  of  the  bu- 
reau, and  I  don't  know  in  the  least  how  I  got 
there.  I  have  a  faint  memory  that  I  started  to 
go  for  some  water.  I'm  all  right  today, 
though;  it  hasn't  bothered  me  a  bit," 
[129! 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  Mrs.  Weir  encour- 
agingly. "And  you  don't  mind  staying 
alone?"  she  dropped  her  voice. 

"Oh,  no,  not  at  all.  Only — I  don't  mind  tell- 
ing you — "  he  looked  at  her  with  strange  eyes 
— "I  hate  the  house !  It's  got  all  the  plagues  of 
Egypt  in  it.  And  all  the  hours  I've  spent  alone 
there  are  shut  up  in  it  too.  I  know  just  how 
it's  going  to  be  when  I  open  that  front  door  and 
walk  in." 

"Stay  here  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Weir 
smoothly.  "Stay  here  with  Mr.  Atwood; 
Mrs.  Callender  will  be  delighted  to  have  you." 

"Oh,  I  can't,  possibly,"  said  Rivers  with  de- 
cision. "I  didn't  even  lock  the  front  door  when 
I  came  away.  I  only  remembered  it  a  moment 
ago.  And  I  won't  really  mind  a  bit  after  I'm 
once  back  there — it's  only  the  plunge.  You're 
awfully  good  to  me,  Mrs.  Weir,"  he  added 
gratefully;  but  he  wanted  his  wife — he  did  not 
want  to  be  confidential  with  anyone  but  her. 
No  matter  what  enjoyment  he  had  in  this  brief 
hour,  it  was  bound  to  fail  him  at  the  end.  One 
of  the  dearest  pleasures  of  married  life  is  the 
going  home  together  after  the  outside  pleas- 
uring is  over. 

As  they  all  trooped  into  the  dining-room  for 

the  crabs  and  salad  Mrs.  Callender  told  of  as 

in  the  ice-box,  the  figure  of  Elizabeth  in  her 

pink  kimono  seemed  to  weave  in  and  out  among 

[130] 


In  the  Married  Quarters 

the  others,  but  in  another  moment  he  was 
laughing  and  talking  uproariously  with  the 
men,  while  the  women,  on  Mrs.  Callender's  as- 
sertion that  the  servants  were  in  bed,  tucked  up 
their  gowns  and  descended  the  cellar  stairs  for 
the  provisions,  refusing  all  masculine  assist- 
ance. 

"I  think  it's  an  eternal  shame,"  said  Mrs. 
Callender  as  the  three  held  an  excited  con- 
clave in  cellared  seclusion  by  the  open  refrig- 
erator. "It's  just  as  Celeste  says,  he's  ill — any- 
one can  see  it.  Why,  he  starts  whenever  he's 
spoken  to.  He  told  Mr.  Callender  the  other 
day  that  he'd  been  horribly  worried  about  busi- 
ness. He's  a  nervous  kind  of  a  fellow,  and  he 
takes  everything  too  hard.  He  ought  not  to  be 
left  alone  in  this  way." 

"I  think  somebody  ought  to  write  to  her" 
said  Mrs.  Waring  solemnly,  resting  the  dish  of 
salad  on  the  top  of  the  ice-box.  "I  think  it's 
perfectly  heartless  of  her  to  go  on  enjoying  her- 
self when  he's  ill." 

"She  doesn't  know  it,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Cal- 
lender with  rare  justice. 

"That's  what  I  say,  somebody  ought  to  tell 
her.  She  never  seems  to  think  about  anything 
but  herself,  though — or  the  children,  or  clothes. 
If  I  thought  that  Henry — but  I'd  never  leave 
him  this  way,  never;  /  wouldn't  have  a  bit 
[131] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

of  comfort.    He's  so  devoted  to  his  home,  just 
like  Mr.  Rivers." 

"Do  you  know — I  have  a  dreadful  feeling 
that  something  is  going  to  happen  to  him  to- 
night?" 

"If  you  had  heard  him  talk — "  said  Mrs. 
Weir  with  tragic  impressiveness. 

The  three  women  looked  at  each  other  si- 
lently. 

"Are  we  to  have  anything  to  eat  to-night,  or 
are  you  girls  going  to  talk  until  morning?" 
came  the  steady  tones  of  Porter  from  the  head 
of  the  stairs.  "It's  after  eleven  now." 

"Goodness!"  said  Mrs.  Callender,  hastily 
completing  her  preparations.  "Yes!  we're 
coming.  You  can  send  Ned  down  now  to  crack 
some  more  ice,  and  then  we'll  be  ready." 

But  she  turned  to  say,  "I  think  someone 
ought  to  go  home  with  him." 

"This  is  what  I  call  comfort,"  said  Porter 
as  they  sat  hilariously  around  the  Flemish  oak 
table,  eating  the  cool  viands  and  drinking  anew 
from  the  iced  bowl,  a  lacy  square  of  white  linen 
and  a  glass  vase  of  scarlet  nasturtiums  grac- 
ing the  center  of  the  board.  "Clear,  clear  com- 
fort!" 

"I  feel  at  peace  with  all  mankind — even  witK 
At  wood,  who  believes  in  an  imperial  policy." 

"Hush,"  said  Mrs.  Callender,  "who  is  that 
on  the  piazza?" 

[132] 


In  the  Married  Quarters 

The  door  opened,  a  head  was  thrust  in,  and 
a  shout  arose. 

"Martindale!  Martindale,  by  all  that's 
holy!  Come  in,  we're  expecting  you." 

"That's  mighty  good  of  you,"  said  the  in- 
truder, who  seemed  to  be  all  red  hair  and  smiles. 
"All  the  same,  you  don't  seem  to  have  left  me 
much  of  anything  to  eat."  He  drew  up  a  chair 
to  the  table  and  sat  down. 

"Where's  your  wife?"  asked  Mrs.  Weir. 

"Oh,  she  had  a  headache  this  evening.  I 
went  out  for  a  ride,  and  when  I  came  back  I 
saw  you  were  on  deck  over  here,  so  I  thought 
I'd  look  in  and  see  what  was  up."  He  stopped, 
oblivious  of  the  renewed  laughter,  and  stared 
at  Rivers.  "Why,  when  did  you  get  here?  I 
saw  a  light  in  your  house  ten  minutes  ago.  I 
nearly  dropped  in  on  you." 

"A  light  in  my  house!"  exclaimed  Rivers. 
He  rose,  and  the  others  instinctively  rose  also, 
with  startled  glances  at  each  other. 

"Perhaps  your  family  has  come  home,"  sug- 
gested Mrs.  Waring. 

Rivers  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  had  a  letter 
from  Bess  to-day  saying  she  had  taken  the 
rooms  for  two  weeks  more.  It  might  have  been 
Parker,  but  I  don't  think  so.  Are  you  sure 
you  saw  a  light?" 

"On  the  lower  floor,"  asseverated  Martin- 
[133] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

date.  "Was  the  door  locked  when  you  came 
outr 

"No," 

"An  right,"  said  Atwood  briskly.  "Porter 
and  IT1  go  back  with  you,  Rivers.  No,  we 
don't  need  you,  Nichols,  you're  tired.  Come 
upstairs  and  choose  from  Callender*s  arsenal." 

"Each  of  those  women  begged  me  secretly 
not  to  let  Mm  get  shot,"  whispered  Porter  to 
his  companion  as  they  set  off  at  a  jog  trot 
down  the  street,  Rivers  a  little  ahead.  "I  sup- 
pose they  could  sing  oar  requiems  with  pleas- 
ure." 

"I  know.  They  pounded  it  into  me,  too. 
They've  got  some  kind  of  an  idea  between  'em 
that  he's  coming  to  harm.  Anything  for  an 
excitement.  Well  get  ahead  of  him  when 
we're  a  little  nearer  to  the  house." 

It  looked  very  dark  and  still  as  they  reached 
it  The  moon  had  set,  and  the  patch  of  strag- 
gling woods  stretched  out  weird  and  formless. 
The  piano,  the  infant,  the  yelping  dog  had 
given  place  to  an  oppressive  silence  save  for  the 
dismal  chirping  of  insects  and  the  shuddering 
of  a  train  of  coal  cars  as  it  backed  far  off  down 
the  track.  "There  is  no  light  now,"  said  Por- 
tcr. 

The  three  were  drawn  up  in  a  line  outside 
the  house,  and  even  while  he  spoke  the  gas 
flared  up  bright  in  the  second  story.  The  edge 


In  the  Married  Quarters 

of  a  shadow  wavered  toward  the  back  of  the 
room;  then  it  came  forward  and  disappeared. 
The  next  moment  the  shade  of  the  front  win- 
dow was  partly  drawn  up  and  pulled  down 
again  by  a  round  white  arm,  half  dad  in  the 
loose  sleeve  of  a  pink  kimono. 

IVERS  sat  in  the  big  wicker  chair  with 
his  arms  around  his  little  wife.  Her 
head,  with  its  light  curls,  lay  on  his  shoulder, 
and  both  of  her  hands  held  one  of  his  large 
ones  as  she  talked. 

"You  are  sure  you  do  not  mind  my  coming 
in  this  way?" 

"No.  No,  my  Betsy,  I  do  not  mind."  He 
touched  his  lips  to  her  forehead,  and  smoothed 
the  folds  of  her  pink  gown  with  the  strong, 
unnecessarily  firm  touch  of  a  man.  "But 
where  are  the  boys?" 

"I  left  them  with  Alice" — Alice  was  her 
sister — "for  another  week.  I  couldn't  bring 
them  back  in  this  hot  weather." 

"Left  them  with  Alice!" 

"Yes,  don't  talk  about  it."  She  colored  nerv- 
ously and  then  went  on.  "I  know  they're  all 
right,  but  if  I  think  about  it  too  much  I'll 
get  silly — as  I  did  about  you.  But,  of  course, 
it's  really  different  with  them,  for  they  have 
someone  to  look  after  them,  and  Alice  will  tel- 
egraph every  day." 

[i3S] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"How  did  you  get  silly  about  me?" 

She  clasped  and  unclasped  his  hand.  "I 
don't  know.  Yes,  I  do.  It  was  worse  than  the 
time  I  thought  of  little  Brook  and  the  tiger.  I 
kept  imagining  and  imagining  dreadful  things. 
Last  night  I  thought  you  were — dead.  I  saw 
you  fallen  on  the  floor."  Her  voice  dropped 
to  a  note  of  horror,  and  her  eyes  grew  dark  as 
they  stared  at  him.  "Where  did  you  get  that 
cut  on  your  forehead  ?  Were  you  ill  last  night  ? 
Did  you  have  a  fall  ?" 

He  nodded,  gazing  steadily  at  her. 

"I'm  all  right  now." 

"Oh,"  she  said  with  a  long,  shivering  breath, 
and  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  Presently 
she  fell  to  kissing  his  hand,  holding  it  tight 
when  he  strove  to  draw  it  away.  Then  she 
went  on  in  a  smothered  tone,  with  a  little  pause 
between  each  sentence, 

"I  got  here  at  ten  o'clock.  I  thought  you'd 
never  come  home.  Of  course,  I  knew  you  were 
at  the  Calenders'.  I  went  to  work  and  cleared 
up  the  butler's  pantry,  or  I  couldn't  have  slept 
here!  The  house  is  in  a  dreadful  condition." 

"Yes.    Don't  you  care." 

"I  don't.  I'll  have  an  army  here  cleaning 
to-morrow.  But  oh,  Brookton — "  she  broke 
off  suddenly — "don't  send  me  away  again!" 
There  was  a  new,  passionate  ring  in  her  voice. 
"Never  send  me  away  again.  I've  been  wild, 
[136] 


In  the  Married  Quarters 

wild,  wild  for  you !  Promise  never  to  send  me 
away  again.  Let  me  stay  with  you  always — 
whatever  happens — like  this — until  we  die!" 
A  sob  caught  her  by  the  throat. 

The  strong  and  tender  clasp  of  his  arms  an- 
swered her — her  trembling  ceased.  After  a 
silence,  he  said  gently, 

"I'm  going  downstairs  now  to  lock  up." 

She  rose,  flushing  under  his  smiling  eyes  as 
he  held  her  off  at  arm's  length  to  say, 

"It  seems  to  me  you've  reached  a  high  pitch 
of  romance  after  seven  years,  Mrs.  Rivers !" 

"Ah,  don't,  don't,"  she  deprecated.  She 
raised  her  drooping  head  and  flashed  a  reckless 
glance  at  him,  half  mirthful,  half  tragic. 

"Oh,  it's  dreadful  to  care  so  much  for  any 
man !  Goodness  knows  what  I'll  get  to  in  seven 
years  more!" 


[137] 


Mrs.  Atwood's  Outer  Raiment 


[139] 


Mrs.  Atwood's  Outer  Raiment 

much  will  a  new  suit  cost,  Jo?" 
Mr.  Atwood  held  his  fingers  re- 
flectively  on  the  rubber  band  of  his 
pocketbook  as  he  asked  the  question,  and 
glanced  as  he  did  so  at  the  round  brunette  face 
of  his  wife,  which  had  suddenly  become  all 
flush  and  sparkle. 

"Oh,  Edward!" 

"Well?" 

"You  oughtn't  to  give  me  the  money  for  it 
now — you  really  oughtn't.  There  are  so  many 
calls  on  you  at  this  season  of  the  year,  I  don't 
see  how  we  can  meet  them  as  it  is.  The  second 
quarter  of  Josephine's  music  lessons  begins 
next  month,  and  the  dancing  school  bill  conies 
in  too — besides  the  coal.  Everything  just  piles 
in  before  Christmas.  I  meant  to  have  saved 
the  money,  for  a  coat  at  any  rate,  this  summer 
out  of  my  allowance,  but  I  was  obliged  to  fit  Jo- 
sephine out  from  head  to  foot — she  grows  so 
fast,  she  takes  as  much  for  a  dress  as  I  do.  But 
it  doesn't  make  any  difference — I  can  do  very 
well  for  a  while  with  what  I  have — really!" 

"How  about  the  Washington  trip  with  me 
next  month  ?    I  thought  you  said  you  couldn't 
go  anywhere  without  a  new  suit  ?" 
[141] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"Well,  I  can't,  but—" 

"That  settles  it." 

Mr.  Atwood  pulled  off  the  rubber  band  from 
the  pocketbook  and  laid  it  on  the  table  before 
him,  as  he  extracted  a  roll  of  bills  and  began  to 
count  them.  It  was  a  shabby  article,  worn 
brown  at  the  edges,  but  it  had  been  made  of 
handsome  leather  to  begin  with,  and  still  held 
together  in  spite  of  many  years  of  service.  Mrs. 
Atwood  would  hardly  have  known  her  husband 
without  that  pocketbook.  It  represented  in  its 
way  the  heart  of  a  kind  and  generous  man,  al- 
ways ready  to  do  his  utmost  in  help  of  the  fam- 
ily needs,  without  complaint  or  caviling. 

His  wife  always  experienced  mingled  feel- 
ings when  that  leather  receptacle  appeared — a 
quick  and  blessed  relief  and  a  sharp  wince,  as  if 
it  were  really  his  heart's  blood  that  she  was  tak- 
ing. Her  fervent  imagination  was  perennially 
ready  to  picture  unknown  depths  of  stress. 

He  paid  no  attention  now  to  her  inarticulate 
murmur  of  protest;  but  asked,  in  a  business-like 
way, 

"How  much  will  it  take?" 

"I  could  get  the  material  for  a  dollar  a 
yard — "  Mrs.  Atwood  sat  with  her  hands 
clasped  and  her  eyes  looking  off  into  space, 
feeling  the  words  wrung  from  her — "I  could 
get  it  for  a  dollar  a  yard,  but  I  suppose  it  ought 
to  be  heavier  weight  for  the  winter." 
[142] 


Mrs.  Atwood's  Outer  Raiment 

"Have  it  warm  enough,  whatever  else  you 
do,"  interrupted  her  husband. 

"It  would  take  seven  yards,  or  I  might  get 
along  with  six  and  a  half,  it  depends  on  the 
width.  It's  the  linings  that  make  it  mount  up 
to  so  much,  and  the  making.  You  can  get  a 
suit  made  for  ten  dollars;  Cynthia  Callender 
did,  and  hers  looks  well,  but  Mrs.  Nichols  went 
to  the  same  place,  and — " 

"Will  thirty  dollars  be  enough?"  asked  Mr. 
Atwood  with  masculine  directness,  seeking  for 
some  tangible  fact. 

"Oh,  yes.    I'm  sure  it  will  be,  I — " 

"Then  here's  fifty,"  said  Mr.  Atwood.  He 
counted  out  five  tens  and  pushed  them  over  to 
her.  "Get  a  good  suit  while  you're  about  it, 
Jo." 

"Oh,  Edward.    I  don't  want—" 

"Make  her  take  it,"  said  a  girl  of  sixteen, 
rising  from  the  corner  where  she  had  been  sit- 
ting with  a  book  in  her  hand,  a  very  tall  and 
thin  and  pretty  girl,  brunette  like  her  mother, 
with  a  long  black  braid  that  hung  down  her 
back.  She  came  forward  and  threw  her  arm 
around  her  mother's  neck,  bending  protecting- 
ly  over  her.  "Make  her  take  it,  papa.  She 
buys  everything  for  me  and  the  boys,  and  goes 
without  herself,  so  that  I'm  ashamed  to  walk 
out  in  the  street  with  her;  it  makes  me  look  so 
horrid  to  be  all  dressed  up  when  she  wears  that 
[143] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

old  spring  jacket.  When  it's  cold  she  puts  a 
cape  over  it.  I  wish  you'd  see  that  cape !  She's 
had  it  since  the  year  one.  She  doesn't  dare 
wear  it  when  she  goes  out  with  you,  she  just 
shivers." 

"Hush,  hush,  Josephine,"  said  the  mother 
embarrassed,  yet  laughing,  as  her  husband  lifted 
his  shaggy  eyebrows  at  her  in  mock  severity. 
"You  needn't  say  any  more,  either  of  you.  I'll 
take  the  money."  She  paused  impressively, 
and  then  gently  pushed  the  girl  aside  and  went 
over  and  kissed  her  husband. 

"If  I  were  only  as  good  a  manager  as  some 
people!  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with 
me.  I  try,  and  I  try,  but — " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  said  the  husband.  "All 
I  ask  now  is  that  you  spend  this  money  on 
yourself;  it's  not  for  other  needs.  Remember! 
You  are  to  spend  it  all  on  yourself." 

"Yes,  I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Atwood,  with  the 
guilty  thrill  of  the  perjured  at  the  very  moment 
of  her  promise.  She  knew  very  well  that  some 
of  it  would  have  to  be  spent  for  other  needs. 
She  had  but  fifty  cents  left  of  her  allowance  to 
last  her  until  the  end  of  the  month,  five  long 
days  away.  No  one  but  the  mother  of  a  family 
of  moderate  means  realizes  what  the  demand 
for  pads,  pencils,  shoestrings,  lunches,  postage 
stamps,  hair  ribbons,  medicines,  mended  shoes, 
and  such  like  can  amount  to  in  that  short  time. 
[  144] 


Mrs.  Atwood's  Outer  Raiment 

She  had  meant  to  ask  Edward  to  advance  her 
a  little  more  on  the  next  month's  allowance — 
already  largely  anticipated — but  she  had  not 
the  face  to  after  his  generosity  to  her  now.  A 
couple  of  dollars  out  of  the  fifty  would  make 
very  little  difference,  and  she  did  not  need  it 
all,  anyway.  She  almost  wept  as  she  thought 
of  Josephine's  championship  of  her,  and  her 
husband's  thoughtfulness. 

Mrs.  Atwood  adored  her  husband  and  her 
three  children.  She  firmly  believed  them  to  be 
superior  in  every  way  to  all  other  mortals;  sac- 
rificing service  for  them  was  her  joy  of  joys, 
her  keenest  affliction  the  fear  that  she  did  not 
appreciate  them  half  enough.  It  is  certain  that 
the  children,  truthful,  loving,  and  obedient  as 
they  had  been  trained  to  be,  would  have  been 
spoiled  beyond  tolerance  if  it  were  not  that  the 
very  strength  of  her  admiration  made  it  in- 
nocuous. They  were  so  used  to  being  told  that 
they  were  the  loveliest  and  dearest  things  on 
earth  that  the  words  were  not  even  heard.  As 
they  grew  older  the  extravagance  of  her  devo- 
tion was  beginning  to  rouse  the  protective  ele- 
ment in  them,  to  her  wonder  and  humility. 

Mrs.  Atwood,  at  twenty,  the  time  of  her  mar- 
riage, had  been  a  warm-hearted,  fervent,  lo- 
quacious, impulsive  child.  At  thirty-eight  she 
was  still  in  many  ways  the  girl  her  husband  had 
married;  even  to  her  looks,  while  he  appeared 
[i4S] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

much  older  than  his  real  age,  in  reality  but  a 
couple  of  years  ahead  of  hers.  She  was  always 
longing  to  be  a  silent,  noble,  and  finely-balanced 
character,  quite  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  she 
suited  him,  a  humorous  but  self-contained  man, 
exactly  as  she  was,  and  that  he  would  have  been 
very  lonesome  with  anything  more  perfect. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  there  are  few  things  that  are 
better  to  bring  into  a  household  than  an  uncal- 
culating  and  abounding  love,  even  if  the  mani- 
festations of  it  are  not  always  of  the  wisest. 

The  extra  money  cast  a  rich  glow  over  Mrs. 
Atwood's  horizon.  In  the  effulgence  of  it  she 
received  a  bill  for  twelve  dollars  presented  to 
her  just  after  breakfast  the  next  morning,  by 
the  waitress,  with  the  word  that  the  man  wait- 
ing outside  the  door  had  already  brought  it 
once  before,  when  they  were  out  of  town. 
Could  Mrs.  Atwood  pay  it  now?  He  needed 
the  money. 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Atwood  with 
affluent  promptness.  The  bill  was  for  work 
on  the  lawn  during  the  summer,  something  her 
husband  always  paid  for,  but  it  seemed  a  pity 
to  have  the  man  go  away  again  when  the  mon- 
ey was  there  at  hand.  She  would  not  in  the 
least  mind  asking  Edward  to  refund  it  to  her. 
But  she  felt  the  well-known  drop  into  her  usual 
condition  of  calculating  economy. 

Her  husband  came  home  that  night  with  a 
[146] 


Mrs.  Atwood's  Outer  Raiment 

bad  headache,  and  the  night  after  she  had  an- 
other bill  waiting  for  him  for  repairs  on  the 
furnace.  It  was  unexpectedly  and  villainously 
large,  and  Mrs.  Atwood  was  constitutionally 
incapable  of  adding  another  straw  to  his  bur- 
den, while  she  stood  by  consenting  sympathet- 
ically unto  his  righteous  wrath.  A  day  later, 
when  she  spoke  of  going  to  town  to  buy  the 
material  for  her  new  costume  with  outward 
buoyancy,  but  inward  panic  at  the  rapid  shrink- 
age of  her  funds,  Sam,  a  boy  of  twelve,  an- 
nounced the  fact  that  he  must  have  a  new  suit 
of  clothes  at  once.  As  it  was  Saturday,  he 
could  accompany  her. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  those  you  have  on  ? 
They  are  not  in  the  least  worn  out,"  said  his 
mother. 

"Mamma,  they're  so  thin  that  I'm  freezing 
all  the  time  I'm  in  school.  You  ought  to  have 
heard  me  coughing  yesterday." 

"You  have  the  old  blue  suit;  I'm  sure  that's 
thick  enough." 

"The  blue  suit!  Yes,  and  it  hurts  me,  it's 
so  tight  I  can  hardly  walk  in  it.  I  can't  sit 
down  in  it  at  all.  It  makes  ridges  all  around 
my  legs." 

Mrs.  Atwood  looked  at  her  son  with  rare 

exasperation.     It  was  well  known  that  when 

Sam  took  a  dislike  to  his  clothes  for  any  reason, 

they  always  hurt  him.    His  coats,  his  trousers, 

[i47 1 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

his  caps,  his  shoes,  even  his  neckties  developed 
hitherto  unsuspected  attributes  of  torture.  And 
there  was  always  a  haunting  feeling  with  the  out- 
raged dispenser  of  these  articles  that  it  might 
be  true.  A  penetrative  and  scornful  remark 
from  the  passing  Josephine  at  once  emphasized 
this  view  of  the  case  to  the  anxious  mother, 
remorseful  already  at  her  own  lack  of  sympathy. 

"I'm  astonished  at  you,  Josephine.  If  the 
clothes  hurt  him — "  but  the  girl  had  disap- 
peared beyond  hearing.  Sam  came  from  town 
that  jubilant  evening,  in  warm  and  roomy  jack- 
et and  trousers,  and,  oh,  weakness  of  woman! 
with  a  new  football,  besides.  Mrs.  Atwood  car- 
ried with  her  a  box  of  lead  soldiers  for  Eddy, 
and  a  sweet  little  fluffy  thing  in  neckwear  for 
Josephine,  such  as  she  saw  other  girls  display- 
ing. After  all,  what  was  her  own  dress  in  com- 
parison with  the  darling  children's  happiness? 
She  would  get  some  cheap  stuff  and  make  it  up 
herself.  No  one  would  know  the  difference. 

"How  about  your  suit,  Jo?"  asked  her  hus- 
band one  evening  as  they  sat  around  the  fire. 
"Is  it  almost  finished  ?" 

"Not — exactly,"  said  Mrs.  Atwood. 

"The  club  goes  to  Washington  on  the  fif- 
teenth of  the  month,  it  was  decided  to-day. 
Nearly  all  the  men  are  going  to  take  their  wives 
with  them.  I'm  looking  forward  to  showing 
off  mine." 

[148] 


Mrs.  Atwood's  Outer  Raiment 

"My  mamma  will  look  prettier  than  any  of 
them,"  said  Eddy  belligerently. 

"And  lots  younger,"  added  Sam. 

"Have  you  ordered  the  suit  yet?"  asked  the 
voice  of  Josephine.  Oh,  how  her  mother 
dreaded  it! 

"No,  I  haven't — yet,"  she  felt  herself  forced 
into  saying. 

"I  don't  believe  there  is  any  money  left  for 
it,"  pursued  the  pitiless  one.  "She  spends  it 
for  other  things,  papa.  She  pays  bills  and  does- 
n't tell,  because  she  hates  to  bother  you.  And 
she  buys  things  for  us.  And  she  paid  a  sub- 
scription to  the  Orphan's  Home  yesterday,  and 
she  got  a  new  wash-boiler  for  Katy.  And — " 

"Hush,  hush,  Josephine,"  said  her  father  se- 
verely. "I  found  that  receipted  bill  of  Patrick's 
lying  around  the  other  day,  Jo.  I  should  have 
paid  you  back  at  once.  How  much  money  have 
you  left?" 

"Oh,  Edward— I'm  so  foolish.    I—" 

"Have  you  thirty  dollars?" 

"I— I  don't  think  so." 

"Have  you  twenty?" 

"I  haven't — more  than  that."  She  had,  as 
she  well  knew,  the  sum  of  nine  dollars  and 
sixty-seven  cents  in  the  purse  in  her  dressing- 
table  drawer. 

"Will  this  help  you  out?"  His  tone  had  the 
business-like  quality  in  it  as  natural  as  breath- 
[149] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

ing  to  a  man  when  he  speaks  of  money  matters, 
and  which  a  woman  feels  almost  as  a  personal 
condemnation  in  its  chill  removal  from  sen- 
timent. 

"Oh,  Edward — please  don't!  It  makes  me 
feel  so — "  She  tried  not  to  be  too  abject.  "But 
nearly  all  of  it  has  gone  for  necessary  things." 

"That's  all  right."  He  added  with  a  touch  of 
severity.  "Don't  let  there  be  any  mistake  about 
it  this  time,  Jo,"  and  she  murmured  content- 
edly, 

"No.    No,  indeed." 

With  her  allowance  money,  too,  how  could 
there  be  ? 

Mrs.  Atwood  now  set  herself  seriously  to  the 
•work  of  getting  appareled.  She  read  advertise- 
ments, and  went  to  town  two  days  in  succes- 
sion, bringing  home  samples  of  cloth  for  family 
approval;  she  sought  the  advice  of  her  young 
sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Callender,  and  of  her  friend, 
Mrs.  Nichols,  with  the  result  that  she  finally  sat 
down  one  morning  immediately  after  breakfast, 
and  wrote  a  letter  to  a  New  York  firm  ordering 
a  jacket  and  skirt  made  like  one  in  a  catalogue 
issued  by  them,  and  setting  down  her  measure- 
ments according  to  its  directions.  Just  before 
she  finished,  a  maid  brought  her  up  word  that 
Mrs.  Martindale  was  below. 

"Mrs.  Martindale — at  this  time  in  the  morn- 
ing!" 

[150] 


Mrs.  Atwood's  Outer  Raiment 

Mrs.  Martindale  was  her  cousin,  and  lived 
over  the  other  side  of  the  track,  some  distance 
away.  Mrs.  Atwood  hurried  down  with  a  pre- 
monition of  evil  to  find  the  visitor,  a  pretty 
woman,  elegantly  but  hastily  gowned,  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  as  if  ready  for  instant 
flight.  There  was  a  wild  expression  in  her  eye. 

She  began  at  once,  taking  no  notice  of  Mrs. 
Atwood's  greeting. 

"I  suppose  you  think  I'm  crazy  to  come  here 
in  this  way.  I  didn't  sleep  a  wink  last  night. 
I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  We're  in  such  a 
state !" 

"Is  it  the  business  ?" 

"Oh,  it's  the  estate  and  the  business  and 
everything.  Mr.  Bellew's  death  has  just 
brought  the  whole  thing  to  a  standstill.  All 
the  money  is  tied  up  in  some  dreadful  way — 
don't  ask  me.  Of  course  it  will  be  all  right  in 
three  or  four  weeks,  Dick  says,  and  we  have 
credit  everywhere.  It's  just  to  tide  over  this 
time.  But  we  haven't  a  penny  of  ready  money; 
not  a  penny.  It  would  be  ridiculous  if  it  wasn't 
horrible.  Dick  gave  me  all  he  could  scrape  to- 
gether last  week,  and  told  me  to  try  and  make  it 
last,  but  it's  all  gone — /  couldn't  help  it.  And 
the  washerwoman  comes  to-day.  If  you  could 
let  me  have  ten  dollars,  Jo;  I  couldn't  bear  to  let 
Dick  know." 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Atwood  witH 
[151] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

loving  alacrity.  "Don't  say  another  word." 
If  she  felt  a  pang,  she  scorned  it. 

"You  don't  know  how  many  calls  there  are 
on  one,"  murmured  the  other,  sinking  back 
with  relief. 

Mrs.  Atwood  thought  she  did,  but  she  only 
said,  "You  poor  thing,"  and  rushed  upstairs  to 
get  one  of  her  crisp  ten-dollar  bills;  she  could 
not  use  the  house  money  for  this.  She  passed 
Josephine  in  the  hall,  afterwards,  on  her  way  to 
school,  and  held  the  bill  behind  her,  but  she  felt 
sure  the  girl's  keen  eyes  had  spied  it. 

"I'm  so  glad  I  had  it!  Are  you  sure  this 
will  be  enough  ?"  she  asked  as  the  other  kissed 
her  fervently.  What  were  clothes  for  herself 
in  comparison  with  poor  Bertha's  need?  She 
would  look  over  the  catalogue  again  to-mor- 
row, when  she  had  time,  and  order  a  cheaper 
suit,  or  buy  one  ready  made. 

After  all,  she  did  neither.  Her  money — but 
why  chronicle  further  the  dimunition  of  her 
forces  ?  Delay  made  it  as  inevitable  as  the  thaw 
after  snow.  Her  entire  downfall  was  com- 
pleted the  day  she  had  unexpected  and  honor- 
able company  to  dinner,  and  sent  Sam  out  to 
the  nearest  shops  instead  of  those  at  which  she 
usually  dealt,  to  "break  a  bill" — heart-rend- 
ing process — in  the  purchase  of  fruits  and 
sweets  for  their  consumption.  No  one  has  ever 
satisfactorily  explained  why  the  change  from 


Mrs.  Atwood's  Outer  Raiment 

five  dollars  never  amounts  to  more  than  two 
dollars  and  sixteen  cents.  Poor  Mrs.  Atwood 
could  never  get  quite  used  to  the  fact  that  if  she 
spent  money  it  was  gone.  She  cherished  an  un- 
derlying hope  that  she  could  get  it  back  somehow. 

As  the  time  approached  for  the  Washington 
trip  she  did  not  dare  to  meet  her  Edward's  eye, 
and  replied  but  feebly  to  his  unusually  jolly 
anticipations  of  "this  time  next  week."  She 
had  hoped  that  she  might  have  some  excuse  to 
remain  at  home,  much  as  she  had  longed  for 
this  jaunt  alone  with  her  husband,  but  there 
seemed  to  be  no  loophole  of  escape. 

She  tried  to  freshen  up  her  heaviest  skirt, 
and  took  the  spring  jacket  she  was  wearing  and 
made  a  thick  lining  to  it,  planning  to  disguise 
it  further  with  a  piece  of  fur  at  the  neck.  She 
felt  horribly  guilty  when  Josephine  came  in  and 
caught  her  at  it.  The  tall  girl  with  her  red 
cheeks  just  out  of  the  wintry  air  looked  at  her 
mother  with  an  inscrutable  expression,  but  she 
merely  said, 

"I  suppose  that's  to  save  your  new  suit. 
You'll  never  be  able  to  get  into  it,  if  you  put 
so  much  wadding  in,"  and  went  off  again.  The 
mother  felt  relieved,  yet  a  little  hurt,  too,  in 
some  mysterious  way. 

Many  a  time  she  tried  to  screw  her  cour- 
age up  to  confessing  that  she  had  no  outer  rai- 
ment; that  after  all  the  money  and  all  her 
[153] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

promises  she  had  nothing  to  show  in  exchange. 
The  fatal  moment  had  to  come,  but  she  put  it 
off.  She  had  done  it  so  many  times !  For  her- 
self she  did  not  mind;  she  could  have  confessed 
joyfully  to  all  the  crimes  in  the  Decalogue,  if 
it  would  have  benefited  her  dear  ones,  but  to 
wound  their  idea  of  her,  to  pain  them  by  show- 
ing how  unworthy  she  was,  how  unfit  to  be 
trusted — that  came  hard.  She  prayed  a  great 
deal  about  it  on  her  knees  by  the  bed  in  the 
dusk  of  her  own  room  when  she  came  upstairs 
after  dinner,  on  the  pretext  of  "getting  some- 
thing"; she  belonged  to  the  old-fashioned, 
child-like  order  of  women  who  do  pray  about 
things,  not  only  daily,  but  hourly,  and  who, 
unknown  to  themselves,  exhale  the  sweetness 
born  of  heavenly  contact. 

She  wondered  if,  perhaps,  it  might  not  be 
better  if  she  were  dead,  she  was  such  a  poor 
manager,  and  set  such  a  bad  example  to  the 
children.  Josephine  had  that  clear  common 
sense  that  she  lacked.  The  girl  was  getting  to 
be  so  companionable  to  her  father,  too.  She 
had  the  sacrificial  pleasure  of  the  victim  when 
she  heard  them  laughing  and  talking  down- 
stairs together. 

"Well,  Jo,  has  your  suit  come  home  yet?" 
It  was  three  nights  before  the  fateful  Thurs- 
day, and  the  family  were  grouped  in  the  li- 
brary as  was  their  wont  in  the  evenings  imme- 
[i54l 


Mrs.  Atwood's  Outer  Raiment 

diately  after  dinner.  Eddy  was  lying  on  the 
fur  rug  playing  with  the  cat  in  the  warmth  of 
the  wood  fire,  and  Mr.  Atwood,  in  a  big  chair 
with  his  wife  leaning  on  the  arm  of  it,  sat 
watching  the  little  boy.  The  two  older  children 
were  studying  by  a  table  in  the  back  of  the 
room  in  front  of  a  shaded  lamp,  with  a  pile  of 
books  before  them. 

Mr.  Atwood,  although  his  hair  and  mus- 
tache were  grizzled  and  his  face  prematurely 
lined,  had  a  curious  faculty  of  suddenly  looking 
like  a  boy,  under  some  pleasurable  emotion;  an- 
ticipation of  his  holiday  made  him  young  for 
the  moment.  His  wife  thought  him  beautiful. 

"Did  you  say  it  had  not  come  home  yet? 
You  must  be  sure  to  have  it  on  time.  Take  all 
your  party  clothes  along,  too." 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  going  to,"  said  Mrs.  Atwood. 
She  was  on  sure  ground  here.  The  gown  she 
had  had  made  for  a  wedding  in  the  spring  was 
crying  to  be  worn  again. 

"What  color  did  you  decide  on?" 

"I — I  decided  on — brown,"  said  Mrs.  At- 
wood with  fixed  eyes.  Her  respite  was  gone. 

"Brown — yes,  I  always  liked  you  in  brown. 
Have  you  heard  your  mother  talk  much  about 
her  new  clothes,  Josephine?" 

"No,"  said  Josephine,  "I  haven't." 

"Didn't  you  wear  brown  when  we  went  on 
our  wedding  trip?  It  seems  to  me  that  I  re- 
[i55l 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

member  that.  I  know  you  had  red  berries  in 
your  hat,  for  I  knocked  some  of  them  out." 

"Were  you  married  in  a  brown  dress?" 
called  Sam. 

"No,"  answered  the  father  for  her,  "your 
mother  was  married  in  white — some  kind  of 
white  mosquito-netting.  What  makes  you 
look  so  unhappy,  Jo?  Aren't  you  glad  to  go 
off  with  me — in  a  new  suit?" 

"Edward!"  said  Mrs.  Atwood.  She  rose 
and  stood  in  front  of  him,  her  dark  eyes  un- 
naturally large,  the  color  coming  and  going  in 
her  rounded  olive  cheek.  Her  red  lips  trem- 
bled. Here,  before  the  loved  and  dreaded  do- 
mestic tribunal  she  would  be  shriven  at  last. 
Her  children  should  know  just  what  she  was 
like.  "Edward!  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

"There's  the  door  bell,"  said  her  husband 
with  an  arresting  hand,  as  he  listened  for  the 
outer  sounds. 

"A  package,  sir.  By  the  express.  Twenty- 
five  cents." 

"Have  you  the  change,  Jo?  It's  some 
clothes  I  ordered  myself  for  the  Washington 
trip;  I  wanted  to  do  you  credit.  Oh,  don't  go 
upstairs  for  it." 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Atwood.  Change! 

She  had  nothing  but  change.    Clothes!    How 

easy  it  was  for  him  to  get  them!     Do  her 

credit — in  his  glossy  newness,  while  she  was  in 

[156] 


Mrs.  Atwood's  Outer  Raiment 

that  old  black  skirt,  grown  skimp  and  askew 
with  wear,  and  that  tight,  impossible  jacket! 
She  charged  up  and  down  stairs  in  the  vehe- 
mence of  her  emotion,  filled  with  anger  at  her 
folly,  and  paid  the  man  herself  before  reenter- 
ing  the  library. 

Her  husband  was  untying  the  cords  of  the 
long  pasteboard  box  with  slow  and  patient  fin- 
gers. He  was  a  man  who  had  never  cut  a 
string  in  his  life.  The  children  were  standing 
by  in  what  seemed  unnecessary  excitement, 
their  faces  all  turned  to  her  as  she  came  toward 
them.  Edward  had  lifted  the  cover  of  the  box. 

"What  color  are  your  clothes,  Edward?" 
asked  his  wife.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had 
ever  bought  anything  without  consulting  her. 

"What  color?  Oh— brown,"  said  Mr.  At- 
wood.  He  swooped  her  into  a  front  place  in 
the  circle  with  his  long  arm.  "Here,  look  and 
tell  me  what  you  think  of  this." 

"Edward!" 

"Lined  throughout  with  taffeta,  gores  on 
every  frill — why,  Jo!  Bring  your  mother  a 
chair,  Josephine." 

Before  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Atwood  lay  the  rich 
folds  of  a  cloth  skirt,  surmounted  by  a  jacket 
trimmed  with  fur. 

She  lay  back  in  the  armchair  with  the  family 
clustered  around  her,  their  tongues  loosened. 

"We  all  knew  about  it—"  "We  promised 
[i57] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

not  to  tell — "  "We  wanted  to  see  you  get  it — " 
"There  won't  be  anybody  as  pretty  as  you, 
mamma."  "You  left  out  that  letter  of  meas- 
urements, and  papa  and  I  took  it  to  Aunt  Cyn- 
thia"— this  from  Josephine — "and  she  helped 
us.  She  says  you're  disgracefully  unselfish." 
The  girl  emphasized  her  remark  with  a  sudden 
and  strangling  hug.  "There  isn't  anybody  in 
the  world  as  good  as  you  are.  I  was  watching 
you  all  last  week;  I  knew  you  wouldn't  buy  a 
thing.  But  it  was  papa  who  thought  of  doing 
it,  when  I  told  him.  Feel  the  stuff — isn't  it 
lovely  ?  so  thick  and  soft.  He  and  Aunt  Cyn- 
thia said  you  should  have  the  best;  she  can 
spend  money!  And  you're  to  go  uptown  to- 
morrow with  me  to  buy  a  hat  with  red  in  it, 
and  if  the  suit  needs  altering  it  can  be  done 
then.  Don't  you  like  it,  mamma?" 

"It's  perfectly  beautiful,"  said  the  mother, 
her  hands  clasped  in  those  of  her  three  dar- 
lings, but  her  eyes  sought  her  husband's. 

He  alone  said  nothing,  but  stood  regarding 
her  with  twinkling  eyes,  through  a  suspicion 
of  moisture.  What  did  she  see  in  them  ?  The 
love  and  kindness  that  clothed  her  not  only  with 
silk  and  wool,  but  with  honor;  that  made  of 
this  new  raiment  a  vesture  wherein  she  entered 
that  special  and  exquisite  heaven  of  the  woman 
whose  husband  and  children  arise  up  and  call 
her  blessed. 

[158] 


Fairy  Gold 


Ii59l 


Fairy  Gold 


HEN  Mr.  William  Belden  walked 
out  of  his  house  one  wet  October 
evening  and  closed  the  hall  door 
carefully  behind  him,  he  had  no  idea  that  he 
was  closing  the  door  on  all  the  habits  of  his  ma- 
turer  life  and  entering  the  borders  of  a  land  as 
far  removed  from  his  hopes  or  his  imagination 
as  the  country  of  the  Gadarenes. 

He  had  not  wanted  to  go  out  that  evening 
at  all,  not  knowing  what  the  fates  had  in  store 
for  him,  and  being  only  too  conscious  of  the 
comfort  of  the  sitting-room  lounge,  upon 
which,  after  the  manner  of  the  suburban  resi- 
dent who  traveleth  daily  by  railways,  he  had 
cast  himself  immediately  after  the  evening  meal 
was  over.  The  lounge  was  in  proximity — yet 
not  too  close  proximity — to  the  lamp  on  the 
table;  so  that  one  might  have  the  pretext  of 
reading  to  cover  closed  eyelids  and  a  general 
oblivion  of  passing  events.  On  a  night  when 
a  pouring  rain  splashed  outside  on  the  pave- 
ments and  the  tin  roofs  of  the  piazzas,  the  con- 
ditions of  rest  in  the  cozy  little  room  were  pecul- 
iarly attractive  to  a  man  who  had  come  home 
draggled  and  wet,  and  with  the  toil  and  wear  of 
a  long  business  day  upon  him.  It  was  therefore 
[161] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

with  a  sinking  of  the  heart  that  he  heard  his 
wife's  gentle  tones  requesting  him  to  wend  his 
way  to  the  grocery  to  purchase  a  pound  of 
butter. 

"I  hate  to  ask  you  to  go,  William  dear,  but 
there  really  is  not  a  scrap  in  the  house  for 
breakfast,  and  the  butter-man  does  not  come 
until  to-morrow  afternoon,"  she  said  deprecat- 
ingly.  "It  really  will  only  take  you  a  few 
minutes." 

Mr.  Belden  smothered  a  groan,  or  perhaps 
something  worse.  The  butter  question  was  a 
sore  one,  Mrs.  Belden  taking  only  a  stated 
quantity  of  that  article  a  week,  and  always  un- 
expectedly coming  short  of  it  before  the  day  of 
replenishment,  although  no  argument  ever 
served  to  induce  her  to  increase  the  original 
amount  for  consumption. 

"Cannot  Bridget  go?"  he  asked  weakly,  gaz- 
ing at  the  small,  plump  figure  of  his  wife,  as 
she  stood  with  meek  yet  inexorable  eyes  look- 
ing down  at  him. 

"Bridget  is  washing  the  dishes,  and  the 
stores  will  be  closed  before  she  can  get  out." 

"Can't  one  of  the  boys—  He  stopped. 
There  was  in  this  household  a  god  who  ruled 
everything  in  it,  to  whom  all  pleasures  were 
offered  up,  all  individual  desires  sacrificed,  and 
whose  Best  Good  was  the  greedy  and  unappre- 
ciative  Juggernaut  before  whom  Mr.  Belden 
[162] 


Fairy  Gold 

and  his  wife  prostrated  themselves  daily.  This 
idol  was  called  The  Children.  Mr.  Belden  felt 
that  he  had  gone  too  far. 

"William!"  said  his  wife  severely,  "I  am 
surprised  at  you.  John  and  Henry  have  their 
lessons  to  get,  and  Willy  has  a  cold;  I  could  not 
think  of  exposing  him  to  the  night  air;  and  it 
is  so  damp,  too!" 

Mr.  Belden  slowly  and  stiffly  rose  from  his 
reclining  position  on  the  sofa.  There  was  a 
finality  in  his  wife's  tone  before  which  he 
succumbed. 

The  night  air  was  damp.  As  he  walked 
along  the  street  the  water  slopped  around  his 
feet,  and  ran  in  rills  down  his  rubber  coat.  He 
did  not  feel  as  contented  as  usual.  When  he 
was  a  youngster,  he  reflected  with  exaggerated 
bitterness,  boys  were  boys,  and  not  treated  like 
precious  pieces  of  porcelain.  He  did  not  re- 
member, as  a  boy,  ever  having  any  special  con- 
sideration shown  him;  yet  he  had  been  both 
happy  and  healthy,  healthier  perhaps  than  his 
over-tended  brood  at  home.  In  his  day  it  had 
been  popularly  supposed  that  nothing  could 
hurt  a  boy.  He  heaved  a  sigh  over  the  altered 
times,  and  then  coughed  a  little,  for  he  had  a 
cold  as  well  as  Willy. 

The  streets  were  favorable  to  silent  medita- 
tion, for  there  was  no  one  out  in  them.  The 
boughs  of  the  trees  swished  backward  and  for- 
[163] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

ward  in  the  storm,  and  the  puddles  at  the  cross- 
ings reflected  the  dismal  yellow  glare  of  the 
street  lamps.  Everyone  was  housed  to-night 
in  the  pretty  detached  cottages  he  passed,  and 
he  thought  with  growing  wrath  of  the  trivial 
errand  on  which  he  had  been  sent.  "In  happy 
homes  he  saw  the  light/'  but  none  of  the  high 
purpose  of  the  youth  of  "Excelsior"  fame 
stirred  his  heart — rather  a  dull  sense  of  failure 
from  all  high  things.  What  did  his  life  amount 
to,  anyway,  that  he  should  count  one  thing 
more  trivial  than  another  ?  He  loved  his  wife 
and  children  dearly,  but  he  remembered  a  time 
when  his  ambition  had  not  thought  of  being 
satisfied  with  the  daily  grind  for  a  living  and  a 
dreamless  sleep  at  night. 

"  'Our  life  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting/  ' 
he  thought  grimly,  "in  quite  a  different  way 
from  what  Wordsworth  meant."  He  had  been 
one  of  the  foremost  in  his  class  at  college,  an 
orator,  an  athlete,  a  favorite  in  society  and  with 
men.  Great  things  had  been  predicted  for 
him.  Then  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  Nettie; 
a  professional  career  seemed  to  place  marriage 
at  too  great  a  distance,  and  he  had  joyfully, 
yet  with  some  struggles  in  his  protesting  intel- 
lect, accepted  a  position  that  was  offered  to 
him — one  of  those  positions  which  never 
change,  in  which  men  die  still  unpromoted, 
save  when  a  miracle  intervenes.  It  was  not  so 
[164] 


Fairy  Gold 

good  a  position  for  a  family  of  six  as  it  had 
been  for  a  family  of  two,  but  he  did  not  com- 
plain. He  and  Nettie  went  shabby,  but  the 
children  were  clothed  in  the  best,  as  was  their 
due. 

He  was  too  wearied  at  night  to  read  any- 
thing but  the  newspapers,  and  the  gentle  do- 
mestic monotony  was  not  inspiring.  He  and 
Nettie  never  went  out  in  the  evenings;  the  chil- 
dren could  not  be  left  alone.  He  met  his  friends 
on  the  train  in  that  diurnal  journey  to  and  from 
the  great  city,  and  she  occasionally  attended  a 
church  tea;  but  their  immediate  and  engrossing 
world  seemed  to  be  made  up  entirely  of  persons 
under  thirteen  years  of  age.  They  had  dwelt 
in  the  place  almost  ever  since  their  marriage, 
respected  and  liked,  but  with  no  real  social  life. 
If  Mr.  Belden  thought  of  the  years  to  come,  he 
may  be  pardoned  an  unwonted  sinking  of  the 
heart. 

It  was  while  indulging  in  these  reflections 
that  he  mechanically  purchased  the  pound  of 
butter,  which  he  could  not  help  comparing  with 
Shylock's  pound  of  flesh,  so  much  of  life  had 
it  taken  out  of  him,  and  then  found  himself 
stepping  up  on  the  platform  of  the  station, 
led  by  his  engrossing  thoughts  to  pass  the 
street  corner  and  tread  the  path  most  familiar 
to  him.  He  turned  with  an  exclamation  to 
retrace  his  way,  when  a  man  pacing  leisurely 
[165] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

up  and  down,  umbrella  in  hand,  caught  sight 
of  him. 

"Is  that  you,  Belden?"  said  the  stranger. 
"What  are  you  doing  down  here  to-night?" 

"I  came  out  on  an  errand  for  my  wife,"  said 
Mr.  Belden  sedately.  He  recognized  the  man 
as  a  young  lawyer  much  identified  with  pol- 
itics; a  mere  acquaintance,  yet  it  was  a  night 
to  make  any  speaking  animal  seem  a  friend,  and 
Mr.  Belden  took  a  couple  of  steps  along  beside 
him. 

"Waiting  for  a  train?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  thunder,  yes !"  said  Mr.  Groper,  throw- 
ing away  the  stump  of  a  cigar.  "I  have  been 
waiting  for  the  last  half  hour  for  the  train; 
it's  late,  as  usual.  There's  a  whole  deputation 
from  Barnet  on  board,  due  at  the  Reform  meet- 
ing in  town  to-night,  and  I'm  part  of  the  com- 
mittee to  meet  them  here." 

"Where  is  the  other  part  of  the  committee?" 
asked  Mr.  Belden. 

"Oh,  Jim  Crane  went  up  to  the  hall  to  see 
about  something,  and  Connors  hasn't  showed 
up  at  all;  I  suppose  the  rain  kept  him  back. 
What  kind  of  a  meeting  we're  going  to  have  I 
don't  know.  Say,  Belden,  I'm  not  up  to  this 
sort  of  thing.  I  wish  you'd  stay  and  help  me 
out — there's  no  end  of  swells  coming  down, 
more  your  style  than  mine." 

"Why,  man  alive,  I  can't  do  anything  for 
[166] 


Fairy  Gold 

you,"  said  Mr.  Belden.  "These  carriages  I  see 
are  waiting  for  the  delegation,  and  here  comes 
the  train  now;  you'll  get  along  all  right." 

He  waited  as  the  train  slowed  into  the  sta- 
tion, smiling  anew  at  little  Groper's  perturba- 
tion. He  was  quite  curious  to  see  the  arrivals. 
Barnet  had  been  the  home  of  his  youth,  and 
there  might  be  some  one  whom  he  knew.  He 
had  half  intended,  earlier  in  the  day,  to  go  him- 
self to  the  Reform  meeting,  but  a  growing 
spirit  of  inaction  had  made  him  give  up  the 
idea.  Yes,  there  was  quite  a  carload  of  people 
getting  out — ladies,  too. 

"Why,  Will  Belden !"  called  out  a  voice  from 
the  party.  A  tall  fellow  in  a  long  ulster  sprang 
forward  to  grasp  his  hand.  "You  don't  say  it's 
yourself  come  down  to  meet  us.  Here  we  all 
are,  Johnson,  Clemmerding,  Albright,  Cranston 
— all  of  the  old  set.  Rainsford,  you've  heard 
of  my  cousin,  Will  Belden.  My  wife  and  Miss 
Wakeman  are  behind  here;  but  we'll  do  all  the 
talking  afterward,  if  you'll  only  get  us  off  for 
the  hall  now." 

"Well,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Henry,"  said 
Mr.  Belden  heartily.  He  thrust  the  pound  of 
butter  hastily  into  a  large  pocket  of  his  mack- 
intosh, and  found  himself  shaking  hands  with  a 
score  of  men.  He  had  only  time  to  assist  his 
cousin's  wife  and  the  beautiful  Miss  Wakeman 
into  a  carriage,  and  in  another  moment  they 
[167] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

were  all  rolling  away  toward  the  town  hall, 
with  little  Mr.  Groper  running  frantically  after 
them,  ignored  by  the  visitors,  and  peacefully 
forgotten  by  his  friend. 

The  public  hall  of  the  little  town — which 
called  itself  a  city — was  all  ablaze  with  light 
as  the  party  entered  it,  and  well  filled,  notwith- 
standing the  weather.  There  were  flowers  on 
the  platform  where  the  seats  for  the  distin- 
guished guests  were  placed,  and  a  general  air 
of  radiance  and  joyful  import  prevailed.  It 
was  a  gathering  of  men  from  all  political  par- 
ties, concerned  in  the  welfare  of  the  State. 
Great  measures  were  at  stake,  and  the  election 
of  governor  of  immediate  importance.  The 
name  of  Judge  Belden  of  Barnet  was  promi- 
nently mentioned.  He  had  not  been  able  to  at- 
tend on  this  particular  occasion,  but  his  son  had 
come  with  a  delegation  from  the  county  town, 
twenty  miles  away,  to  represent  his  interests. 
On  Mr.  William  Belden  devolved  the  task  of 
introducing  the  visitors;  a  most  congenial  one, 
he  suddenly  found  it  to  be. 

His  friends  rallied  around  him  as  people  are 
apt  to  do  with  one  of  their  own  kind  when 
found  in  a  foreign  country.  They  called  him 
Will,  as  they  used  to,  and  slapped  him  on  the 
shoulder  in  affectionate  abandon.  Those 
among  the  group  who  had  not  known  him  be- 
fore were  anxious  to  claim  acquaintance  on  the 
[168] 


Fairy  Gold 

strength  of  his  fame,  which,  it  seemed,  still 
survived  him  in  his  native  town.  It  must  not 
be  supposed  that  he  had  not  seen  either  his 
cousin  or  his  friends  during  his  sojourn  away 
from  them;  on  the  contrary,  he  had  met  them 
once  or  so  in  two  or  three  years,  in  the  street, 
or  on  the  ferry-boat — though  they  traveled  by 
different  roads — but  he  had  then  been  but  a 
passing  interest  in  the  midst  of  pressing  busi- 
ness. To-night  he  was  the  only  one  of  their 
kind  in  a  strange  place — his  cousin  loved  him, 
they  all  loved  him.  The  expedition  had 
the  sentiment  of  a  frolic  under  the  severer 
political  aspect. 

In  the  welcome  to  the  visitors  by  the  home 
committee  Mr.  Belden  also  received  his  part, 
in  their  surprised  recognition  of  him,  almost 
amounting  to  a  discovery. 

"We  had  no  idea  that  you  were  a  nephew  of 
Judge  Belden,"  one  of  them  said  to  him,  speak- 
ing for  his  colleagues,  who  stood  near. 

Mr.  William  Belden  bowed,  and  smiled;  as 
a  gentleman,  and  a  rather  reticent  one,  it  had 
never  occurred  to  him  to  parade  his  family  con- 
nections. His  smile  might  mean  anything.  It 
made  the  good  committeeman,  who  was  rich 
and  full  of  power,  feel  a  little  uncomfortable,  as 
he  tried  to  cover  his  embarrassment  with  effu- 
sive cordiality.  In  the  background  stood  Mr. 
Groper,  wet,  and  breathing  hard,  but  plainly 
[169] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

full  of  admiration  for  his  tall  friend,  and  the 
position  he  held  as  the  center  of  the  group.  The 
visitors  referred  all  arrangements  to  him. 

At  last  they  filed  on  to  the  platform — the  two 
cousins  together. 

"You  must  find  a  place  for  the  girls,"  said 
Henry  Belden,  with  the  peculiar  boyish  giggle 
that  his  cousin  remembered  so  well.  "By 
George,  they  would  come;  couldn't  keep  'em  at 
home,  after  they  once  got  Jim  Shore  to  say  it 
was  all  right.  Of  course,  Marie  Wakeman 
started  it;  she  said  she  was  bound  to  go  to  a 
political  meeting  and  sit  on  the  platform ;  argu- 
ing wasn't  a  bit  of  use.  When  she  got  Clara 
on  her  side  I  knew  that  I  was  doomed.  Now, 
you  couldn't  get  them  to  do  a  thing  of  this  kind 
at  home;  but  take  a  woman  out  of  her  natural 
sphere,  and  she  ignores  conventionalities,  just 
like  a  girl  in  a  bathing-suit.  There  they  are, 
seated  over  in  that  corner.  I'm  glad  that  they 
are  hidden  from  the  audience  by  the  pillar.  Of 
course,  there's  that  fool  of  a  Jim,  too,  with 
Marie." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  she's  at  it  yet?"  said 
his  cousin  William. 

''  'At  it  yet !'  She's  never  stopped  for  a  mo^- 
ment  since  you  kissed  her  that  night  on  the 
hotel  piazza,  after  the  hop,  under  old  Mrs.  Tre- 
lawney's  window — do  you  remember  that, 
Will?" 


Fairy  Gold 

Mr.  William  Belden  did  indeed  remember  it; 
it  was  a  salute  that  had  echoed  around  their 
little  world,  leading,  strangely  enough,  to  the 
capitulation  of  another  heart — it  had  won  him 
his  wife.  But  the  little  intimate  conversation  was 
broken  off  as  the  cousins  took  the  places  allotted 
to  them,  and  the  business  of  the  meeting  began. 

If  he  were  not  the  chairman,  he  was  appealed 
to  so  often  as  to  almost  serve  in  that  capacity. 
He  became  interested  in  the  proceedings,  and 
in  the  speeches  that  were  made;  none  of  them, 
however,  quite  covered  the  ground  as  he  under- 
stood it.  His  mind  unconsciously  formulated 
propositions  as  the  flow  of  eloquence  went  on. 
It  therefore  seemed  only  right  and  fitting 
toward  the  end  of  the  evening,  when  it  became 
evident  that  his  Honor  the  Mayor  was  not 
going  to  appear,  that  our  distinguished  fellow- 
citizen,  Mr.  William  Belden,  nephew  of  Judge 
Belden  of  Barnet,  should  be  asked  to  represent 
the  interests  of  the  county  in  a  speech,  and  that 
he  should  accept  the  invitation. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  silent  before  the  as- 
sembly, and  then  all  the  old  fire  that  had  lain 
dormant  for  so  long  blazed  forth  in  the  speech 
that  electrified  the  audience,  was  printed  in  all 
the  papers  afterward,  and  fitted  into  a  political 
pamphlet. 

He  began  with  a  comprehensive  statement 
of  facts,  he  drew  large  and  logical  deductions 
[171] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

from  them,  and  then  lit  up  the  whole  subject 
with  those  brilliant  flashes  of  wit  and  sarcasm 
for  which  he  had  been  famous  in  bygone  days. 
More  than  that,  a  power  unknown  before  had 
come  to  him;  he  felt  the  real  knowledge  and 
grasp  of  affairs  which  youth  had  denied  him, 
and  it  was  with  an  exultant  thrill  that  his  voice 
rang  through  the  crowded  hall,  and  stirred  the 
hearts  of  men.  For  the  moment  they  felt  as  he 
felt,  and  thought  as  he  thought,  and  a  storm  of 
applause  arose  as  he  ended — applause  that  grew 
and  grew  until  a  few  more  pithy  words  were 
necessary  from  the  orator  before  silence  could 
be  restored. 

He  made  his  way  to  the  back  of  the  hall  for 
some  water,  and  then,  half  exhausted,  yet  ting- 
ling still  from  the  excitement,  dropped  into  an 
empty  chair  by  the  side  of  Miss  Wakeman. 

"Well  done,  Billy,"  she  said,  giving  him  a 
little  approving  tap  with  her  fan.  "You  were 
just  fine."  She  gave  him  an  upward  glance 
from  her  large  dark  eyes.  "Do  you  know  you 
haven't  spoken  to  me  to-night,  nor  shaken 
hands  with  me?" 

"Let  us  shake  hands  now,"  he  said,  smiling, 
flushed  with  success,  as  he  looked  into  the  eyes 
of  this  very  pretty  woman. 

"I  shall  take  off  my  glove  first — such  old 
friends  as  we  are!  It  must  be  a  real  cere- 
mony." 


Fairy  Gold 

She  laid  a  soft,  white,  dimpled  hand,  covered 
with  glistening  rings,  in  his  outstretched  palm, 
and  gazed  at  him  with  coquettish  plaintiveness. 
"It's  so  lovely  to  see  you  again !  Have  you  for- 
gotten the  night  you  kissed  me?" 

"I  have  thought  of  it  daily,"  he  replied,  giv- 
ing her  hand  a  hearty  squeeze.  They  both 
laughed,  and  he  took  a  surreptitious  peep  at  her 
from  under  his  eyelids.  Marie  Wakeman !  Yes, 
truly,  the  same,  and  with  the  same  old  tricks. 
He  had  been  married  for  nearly  fourteen  years, 
his  children  were  half  grown,  he  had  long  since 
given  up  youthful  friskiness,  but  she  was  "at 
it"  still.  Why,  she  had  been  older  than  he 
when  they  were  boy  and  girl ;  she  must  be  for — 
He  gazed  at  her  soft,  rounded,  olive  cheek,  and 
quenched  the  thought. 

"And  you  are  very  happy?"  she  pursued, 
with  tender  solicitude.  "Nettie  makes  you  a 
perfect  wife,  I  suppose." 

"Perfect,"  he  assented  gravely. 

"And  you  haven't  missed  me  at  all  ?" 

"Can  you  ask?"  It  was  the  way  in  which 
all  men  spoke  to  Marie  Wakeman,  married  or 
single,  rich  or  poor,  one  with  another.  He 
laughed  inwardly  at  his  lapse  into  the  ex- 
pected tone.  "I  feel  that  I  really  breathe  for 
the  first  time  in  years,  now  that  I'm  with  you 
again.  But  how  is  it  that  you  are  not  mar- 
ried?" 

[i73] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"What,  after  I  had  known  you  ?"  She  gave 
him  a  reproachful  glance.  "And  you  were  so 
cruel  to  me — as  soon  as  you  had  made  your 
little  Nettie  jealous  you  cared  for  me  no  longer. 
Look  what  I've  declined  to!"  She  indicated 
Jim  Shore,  leaning  disconsolately  against  the 
cornice,  chewing  his  moustache.  "Now  don't 
give  him  your  place  unless  you  really  want  to; 
well,  if  you're  tired  of  me  already — thank  you 
ever  so  much,  and  I  am  proud  of  you  to-night, 
Billy!" 

Her  lustrous  eyes  dwelt  on  him  lingeringly 
as  he  left  her;  he  smiled  back  into  them.  The 
lines  around  her  mouth  were  a  little  hard;  she 
reminded  him  indefinably  of  "She";  but  she 
was  a  handsome  woman,  and  he  had  enjoyed 
the  encounter.  The  sight  of  her  brought  back 
so  vividly  the  springtime  of  life;  his  hopes,  the 
pangs  of  love,  the  joy  that  was  his  when  Net- 
tie was  won;  he  felt  an  overpowering  throb  of 
tenderness  for  the  wife  at  home  who  had  been 
his  early  dream. 

The  last  speeches  were  over,  but  Mr.  William 
Belden's  triumph  had  not  ended.  As  the  ac- 
knowledged orator  of  the  evening  he  had  an 
ovation  afterward ;  introductions  and  unlimited 
hand-shakings  were  in  order. 

He  was  asked  to  speak  at  a  select  political 
dinner  the  next  week;  to  speak  for  the  hospital 
fund;  to  speak  for  the  higher  education  of 
[174] 


Fairy  Gold 

woman.  Led  by  a  passing  remark  of  Henry 
Belden's  to  infer  that  his  cousin  was  a  whist 
player  of  parts,  a  prominent  social  magnate  at 
once  invited  him  to  join  the  party  at  his  house 
on  one  of  their  whist  evenings. 

"My  wife,  er — will  have  great  pleasure  in 
calling  on  Mrs.  Belden,"  said  the  magnate. 
"We  did  not  know  that  we  had  a  good  whist 
player  among  us.  This  evening  has  indeed 
been  a  revelation  in  many  ways — in  many  ways. 
You  would  have  no  objection  to  taking  a  prom- 
inent part  in  politics,  if  you  were  called  upon? 
A  reform  mayor  is  sadly  needed  in  our  city 
— sadly  needed.  Your  connection  with  Judge 
Belden  would  give  great  weight  to  any  propo- 
sition of  that  kind.  But,  of  course,  all  this  is 
in  the  future." 

Mr.  Belden  heard  his  name  whispered  in 
another  direction,  in  connection  with  the  cash- 
iership  of  the  new  bank  which  was  to  be  built. 
The  cashiership  and  the  mayoralty  might  be 
nebulous  honors,  but  it  was  sweet,  for  once,  to 
be  recognized  for  what  he  was — a  man  of 
might;  a  man  of  talent,  and  of  honor. 

There  was  a  hurried  rush  for  the  train  at  the 
last  on  the  part  of  the  visitors.  Mr.  William 
Belden  snatched  his  mackintosh  from  the  peg 
whereon  it  had  hung  throughout  the  evening, 
and  went  with  the  crowd,  talking  and  laughing 
in  buoyant  exuberance  of  spirits.  The  night 
[i7S] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

had  cleared,  the  moon  was  rising,  and  poured 
a  flood  of  light  upon  the  wet  streets.  It  was  a 
different  world  from  the  one  he  had  traversed 
earlier  in  the  evening.  He  walked  home  with 
Miss  Wakeman's  exaggeratedly  tender  "Good- 
by,  dear  Billy !"  ringing  in  his  ears,  to  provoke 
irrepressible  smiles.  The  pulse  of  a  free  life, 
where  men  lived  instead  of  vegetating,  was  in 
his  veins.  His  footstep  gave  forth  a  ringing 
sound  from  the  pavement;  he  felt  himself  stal- 
wart, alert,  his  brain  rejoicing  in  its  sense  of 
power.  It  was  even  with  no  sense  of  guilt  that 
he  heard  the  church  clocks  striking  twelve  as 
he  reached  the  house  where  his  wife  had  been 
awaiting  his  return  for  four  hours. 

She  was  sitting  up  for  him,  as  he  knew  by 
the  light  in  the  parlor  window.  He  could  see 
her  through  the  half-closed  blinds  as  she  sat  by 
the  table,  a  magazine  in  her  lap,  her  attitude, 
unknown  to  herself,  betraying  a  listless  depres- 
sion. After  all,  is  a  woman  glad  to  have  all 
her  aspirations  and  desires  confined  within  four 
walls  ?  She  may  love  her  cramped  quarters,  to 
be  sure,  but  can  she  always  forget  that  they  are 
cramped  ?  To  what  does  a  wife  descend  after 
the  bright  dreams  of  her  girlhood !  Does  she 
really  like  above  all  things  to  be  absorbed  in 
the  daily  consumption  of  butter,  and  the  chil- 
dren's clothes,  or  is  she  absorbed  in  these  things 
because  the  man  who  was  to  have  widened 
[176] 


Fairy  Gold 

the  horizon  of  her  life  only  limits  it  by  his  own 
decadence  ? 

She  rose  to  meet  her  husband  as  she  heard 
his  key  in  the  lock.  She  had  exchanged  her 
evening  gown  for  a  loose,  trailing  white  wrap- 
per, and  her  fair  hair  was  arranged  for  the 
night  in  a  long  braid.  Her  husband  had  a  smile 
on  his  face. 

"You  look  like  a  girl  again,"  he  said  bright- 
ly, as  he  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "No,  don't 
turn  out  the  light ;  come  in  and  sit  down  a  while 
longer,  I've  ever  so  much  to  tell  you.  You 
can't  guess  where  I've  been  this  evening." 

"At  the  political  meeting,"  she  said  promptly. 

"How  on  earth  did  you  know?" 

"The  doctor  came  here  to  see  Willy,  and  he 
told  me  he  saw  you  on  the  way.  I'm  glad 
you  did  go,  William;  I  was  worrying  because 
I  had  sent  you  out ;  I  did  not  realize  until  later 
what  a  night  it  was." 

"Well,  I  am  very  glad  that  you  did  send  me," 
said  her  husband.  He  lay  back  in  his  chair, 
flushed  and  smiling  at  the  recollection.  "You 
ought  to  have  been  there,  too;  you  would  have 
liked  it.  What  will  you  say  if  I  tell  you  that 
I  made  a  speech — yes,  it  is  quite  true — and  was 
applauded  to  the  echo.  This  town  has  just 
waked  up  to  the  fact  that  I  live  in  it.  And 
Henry  said — but  there,  I'll  have  to  tell  you  the 
whole  thing,  or  you  can't  appreciate  it." 
[177] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

His  wife  leaned  on  the  arm  of  his  chair, 
watching  his  animated  face  fondly,  as  he  re- 
counted the  adventures  of  the  night.  He  pic- 
tured the  scene  vividly,  and  with  a  strong  sense 
of  humor. 

"And  you  don't  say  that  Marie  Wakeman  is 
the  same  as  ever?"  she  interrupted  with  a  flash 
of  special  interest.  "Oh,  William !" 

"She  called  me  Billy."  He  laughed  anew  at 
the  thought.  "Upon  my  word,  Nettie,  she 
beats  anything  I  ever  saw  or  heard  of." 

"Did  she  remind  you  of  the  time  you  kissed 
her?" 

"Yes !"  Their  eyes  met  in  amused  recogni- 
tion of  the  past. 

"Is  she  as  handsome  as  ever?" 

"Urn — yes — I  think  so.  She  isn't  as  pretty 
as  you  are." 

"Oh,  Will !"    She  blushed  and  dimpled. 

"I  declare,  it  is  true !"  He  gazed  at  her  with 
genuine  admiration.  "What  has  come  over 
you  to-night,  Nettie? — you  look  like  a  girl 
again." 

"And  you  were  not  sorry  when  you  saw  her, 
that— that— " 

"Sorry!  I  have  been  thinking  all  the  way 
home  how  glad  I  was  to  have  won  my  sweet 
wife.  But  we  mustn't  stay  shut  up  at  home  as 
much  as  we  have;  it's  not  good  for  either  of  us. 
We  are  to  be  asked  to  join  the  whist  club — 
[178] 


Fairy  Gold 

what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  You  used  to  be  a 
little  card  fiend  once  upon  a  time,  I  remember." 

She  sighed.  "It  is  so  long  since  I  have  been 
anywhere!  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  any  clothes, 
Will.  I  suppose  I  might — " 

"What,  dear?" 

"Take  the  money  I  had  put  aside  for  Mary's 
next  quarter's  music  lessons;  I  do  really  believe 
a  little  rest  would  do  her  good." 

"It  would — it  would,"  said  Mr.  Belden  with 
suspicious  eagerness.  Mary's  after-dinner  prac- 
ticing hour  had  tinged  much  of  his  existence 
with  gall.  "I  insist  that  Mary  shall  have  a 
rest.  And  you  shall  join  the  reading  society 
now.  Let  us  consider  ourselves  a  little  as  well 
as  the  children;  it's  really  best  for  them,  too. 
Haven't  we  immortal  souls  as  well  as  they? 
Can  we  expect  them  to  seek  the  honey  dew  of 
paradise  while  they  see  us  contented  to  feed 
on  the  grass  of  the  field  ? 

"You  call  yourself  an  orator!"  she  scoffed. 

He  drew  her  to  him  by  one  end  of  the  long 
braid,  and  solemnly  kissed  her.  Then  he  went 
into  the  hall  and  took  something  from  the  pock- 
et of  his  mackintosh  which  he  placed  in  his 
wife's  hand — a  little  wooden  dish  covered  with 
a  paper,  through  which  shone  a  bright  yellow 
substance — the  pound  of  butter,  a  lump  of 
gleaming  fairy  gold,  the  quest  of  which  had 
[i79l 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

changed  a  poor,  commonplace  existence  into 
one  scintillating  with  magic  possibilities. 

Fairy  gold,  indeed,  cannot  be  coined  into 
marketable  eagles.  Mr.  William  Belden  might 
never  achieve  either  the  mayoralty  or  the  cash- 
iership,  but  he  had  gained  that  of  which  money 
is  only  a  trivial  accessory.  The  recognition  of 
men,  the  flashing  of  high  thought  to  high 
thought,  the  claim  of  brotherhood  in  the  work 
of  the  world,  and  the  generous  social  inter- 
course that  warms  the  heart — all  these  were 
to  be  his.  Not  even  his  young  ambition  had 
promised  a  wider  field,  not  the  gold  of  the 
Indies  could  buy  him  more  of  honor  and  re- 
spect. 

At  home  also  the  spell  worked.  He  had  but 
to  speak  the  word,  to  name  the  thing,  and  Net- 
tie embodied  his  thought.  He  called  her  young, 
and  happy  youth  smiled  from  her  clear  eyes; 
beautiful,  and  a  blushing  loveliness  enveloped 
her;  clever,  and  her  ready  mind  leaped  to 
match  with  his  in  thought  and  study ;  dear,  and 
love  touched  her  with  its  transforming  fire  and 
breathed  of  long-forgotten  things. 

If  men  only  knew  what  they  could  make  of 
the  women  who  love  them — but  they  do  not, 
as  the  plodding,  faded  matrons  who  sit  and  sew 
by  their  household  fires  testify  to  us  daily. 

Happy  indeed  is  he  who  can  create  a  paradise 
by  naming  it ! 

[180] 


A   Matrimonial  Episode 


A  Matrimonial  Episode 

IT  was  in  the  year  that  Dick  Martindale 
spent  out  West  in  the  service  of  the 
Electrographic  Company  that  his  wife 
became  acquainted  with  Sarah  Latimer.  Al- 
though the  latter  was  by  birth  a  Western  girl 
she  had  lived  long  enough  in  the  East  to  seem 
like  a  compatriot  to  Bertha  Martindale,  who 
had  come  from  the  dear  gregarious  suburban 
life  with  its  commingling  of  family  interests 
and  sympathy,  to  a  land  peopled  thinly  with 
her  husband's  friends,  mostly  men.  Dick 
laughingly  asserted  that  she  had  never  forgiven 
him  for  his  few  years  of  Western  life  previous 
to  their  marriage,  ascribing  all  his  faults  of 
habit  and  expression  to  that  demoralizing  in- 
fluence, and  he  wondered  at  her  courage  in  ex- 
posing little  Rich  and  Mary  to  the  chance  of 
acquiring  the  wide  ease  and  carelessness  she 
objected  to  in  him.  He  had  been  a  little  un- 
easy, in  view  of  her  previous  opinions,  as  to  the 
manner  in  which  she  would  dispense  hospital- 
ity in  the  little  furnished  house  that  they  hired, 
but  he  need  not  have  feared.  Bertha  had  al- 
ways been  used  to  popularity. 

"Don't  you  think  I  get  on  well  with  people?" 
she  asked. 

[183] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"Like  a  bird,"  said  her  husband. 

"No,  but  really.  Don't  you  think  I  adapt 
myself?" 

"You  do  so  much  adapting  that  I'm  getting 
afraid  of  you." 

"Don't."  She  put  his  newspaper  one  side 
and  kissed  him,  and  he  submitted  to  the  caress 
patiently,  his  eyes  still  following  the  paragraph 
on  which  they  had  been  fixed. 

"The  two  women  I  really  feel  at  home  with," 
she  continued  musingly,  "are  the  clergyman's 
wife,  who  is  just  a  dear,  poor  soul !  and  a  living 
reproach  to  everyone,  and  Sarah  Latimer.  I 
wonder  that  you  never  told  me  about  her, 
Richard." 

"Sarah  Latimer !  I  always  thought  she  was 
a  stick,"  said  Richard,  glancing  up  from  the 
newspaper. 

"Well,  she  is  not,  at  all;  at  any  rate,  she's 
only  the  least  little  bit  stick-y.  Oh !  I  suppose 
if  I  were  at  home  I  mightn't  have  taken  such  a 
fancy  to  her,  but  out  here — !  and  I  do  think 
it's  pathetic  about  her." 

"How  on  earth  you  can  discover  anything 
pathetic  about  Sarah  Latimer,  Bertha,  beats 
me.  That  long,  sandy-haired  wisp  of  a  girl! 
Let  me  alone;  I  want  to  read  my  paper." 

"No,"  she  held  the  paper  down  with  one 
hand.    "It's  really  important;  do  listen  to  me, 
Dick !   I  want  to  do  something  for  her." 
[184} 


A   Matrimonial  Episode 


"You  are  doing  something  for  her;  you  have 
her  here  morning,  noon,  and  night.  She's  for- 
ever going  about  with  little  Rich  and  Mary; 
people  will  be  taking  her  for  my  wife  some  day, 
you  just  see  if  they  don't.  I  nearly  kissed 
her  by  mistake  for  you  yesterday ;  she  was  right 
in  the  way  as  I  came  in  the  door.  Now  don't 
feel  jealous!" 

"No,  I  won't,"  said  Bertha  with  indignation. 
"But  look  here,  Dick !  I  know  she  is  with  us  a 
good  deal,  but  I  do  want  to  give  her  a  chance." 

"A  chance  of  what?" 

"A  chance  to  enjoy  herself,  and  to  see  peo- 
ple, and  to  feel  that  she's  young,  and — oh,  a 
chance  to  get  married,  if  you  will  have  me  say 
it." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Dick.  "You  may  as 
well  let  her  go  back  to  private  life,  Bertha; 
she'll  never  be  a  success  on  any  stage  of  that 
kind.  I  don't  believe  any  man  ever  wanted  to 
marry  her,  or  ever  will." 

"You  can't  tell,"  said  Bertha  musingly.  "So 
many  fellows  come  here!  I  should  think  some 
of  them  might  fancy  her." 

"No,  they  will  not,"  said  Richard  deliberate- 
ly. "You  mark  my  words;  that  girl  will  never 
get  married.  Yes,  I  know  she's  good,  and  she's 
clever,  and  really  not  bad  looking,  either,  when 
you  take  her  to  pieces.  But  she's  not  inter- 
[185] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

esting — that's  the  gist  of  the  whole  matter,  and 
nothing  you  can  say  or  do  will  alter  that." 

"She  may  not  be  interesting  to  you,  but  she 
is  to  me,"  returned  Bertha.  "And  that  argu- 
ment goes  for  nothing,  Dick.  Scores  of  unin- 
teresting girls  get  married  every  year.  Here  is 
Sarah  Latimer  at  thirty,  or  near  it,  with  noth- 
ing in  this  world  to  occupy  her,  or  take  up  her 
attention.  Her  uncle  and  aunt  are  very  good  to 
her,  but  they  don't  need  her — she  is  rather  in 
the  way,  if  anything.  That  big  house  is  all  sol- 
emnly comfortable  and  well  arranged,  and  op- 
pressively neat.  The  servants  have  been  there 
for  years.  The  furniture  was  bought  in  the 
age  when  it  was  made  to  last,  and  it  has  lasted. 
The  curtains  are  always  drawn  in  the  parlor, 
and  if  a  chink  of  light  comes  in,  Mrs.  Latimer 
draws  them  closer;  everything  is  dim  and  well 
preserved,  and  smells  stuffy  when  it  doesn't 
smell  of  oilcloth.  It  gives  me  the  creeps !" 

"You  are  eloquent,"  said  Richard. 

"There  is  only  one  place  that  looks  as  if  it 
were  ever  used,"  continued  Bertha,  unheeding, 
"and  that's  the  sitting-room  off  the  parlor.  It 
has  a  faded  green  lounge  in  it,  and  discolored 
family  photographs  in  oval  walnut  frames,  and 
two  big  haircloth  rockers,  with  tidies  on 
them,  on  either  side  of  the  table,  which  holds 
a  lamp,  a  newspaper — not  a  pile  of  them,  they 
are  always  cleared  away  neatly — and  a  piece  of 
[186] 


A  Matrimonial  Episode 


knitting  work.     Here  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Latimer 
doze  all  the  evening." 

"What  on  earth  has  all  this  to  do  with  Sa- 
rah's marriage  ?"  asked  Richard. 

"Everything!  Don't  you  see  that  the  poor 
girl  is  just  being  choked  by  degrees;  it's  a  case 
of  slow  suffocation.  She  lived  East  after  she 
left  school  until  five  years  ago,  and  came  back 
to  find  her  girl  friends  married  and  moved 
away.  People,  of  course,  sent  her  invitations, 
and  were  polite  to  her,  but  there  seemed  no  par- 
ticular place  for  her,  anywhere.  She's  too 
clever  for  most  of  the  men  here,  and  her  stand- 
ard is  above  them.  She's  what  /  call  a  very 
highly  educated  girl." 

"You  seem  to  suit  them,"  said  Richard, 
laughing. 

"I'm  naturally  frivolous,"  said  Bertha  with 
a  sigh,  "but  Sarah  isn't.  If  she  only  had  to 
work  for  a  living  she  would  be  a  great  success, 
but  she  has  enough  of  a  little  income  to  support 
her.  She  reads  to  Rich  and  Mary,  and  she  is 
giving  music  lessons  to  some  little  girls  just  for 
occupation.  Besides,  she  practices  Beethoven 
three  hours  a  day — she's  making  a  specialty  of 
the  sonatas.  She  reads  Herbert  Spencer  a  great 
deal,  and  has  theories  of  education,  and  on 
governing  children.  I'm  afraid  that  neither 
Mr.  Allenton  nor  your  friend  Dick  Quimby 
care  about  sonatas  or  Herbert  Spencer." 
[187] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"Not  a  hang!"  said  Richard.  "If  she  could 
play  the  banjo,  or  give  them  a  dance — by  Jove, 
I'd  like  to  see  Sarah  Latimer  dance  a — " 

"Richard!"  cried  Bertha,  indignantly.  "If 
you're  going  to  be  horrid  I'll  go  away,  I  won't 
say  another  word." 

"Then  I'll  be  horrid,  for  I  don't  want  you  to 
say  another  word!  I'm  dead  sick  of  Sarah 
with  her  pale,  moony  eyes  and  her  straw-colored 
smile — send  her  to  Jericho,  and  let  me  read  my 
newspaper,  and  don't  embrace  me  any  more, 
you'll  muss  my  hair."  He  turned  and  kissed 
his  wife  as  an  offset  to  the  words. 

Bertha  could  not  help  owning  to  herself  that 
week  that  Sarah  was  a  little  heavy.  She  was  a 
tall,  thin  girl,  with  a  long  nose,  light  gray  eyes, 
and  a  quantity  of  sandy  red  hair.  She  had  no 
color  in  her  cheeks,  and  she  had  a  peculiar  look 
of  withered  youth,  like  a  bud  that  the  frost  has 
touched.  Beneath  that  outer  crust  of  primness 
and  shyness  there  was,  as  Bertha  had  divined, 
an  absolutely  virginal  heart,  as  untried  in  the 
ways  of  love  or  love's  pretense  as  that  of  a 
child  of  six.  She  had  not  had  any  real  girl- 
hood yet  at  all,  while  she  was  apparently  long 
past  it.  Bertha  wondered  at  that  slow  devel- 
opment, which  occurs  much  oftener  than  she 
dreamed  of. 

She  asked  Sarah  indefatigably  to  spend  the 
evenings  with  her.  On  these  occasions  Sarah 
[188] 


A  Matrimonial  Episode 


sat  completely,  appallingly  silent  amid  the  jokes 
and  laughter  of  the  others.  Bertha  had  long 
consultations  with  her  dear  friend,  the  clergy- 
man's wife,  about  her. 

"She  will  never  like  anyone  who  is  not  on  the 
highest  intellectual  plane,"  said  Bertha  with  a 
sigh;  "but  there's  a  sort  of  wistful  sentimental- 
ity through  it  all  that  makes  me  so  sorry !" 

It  was  some  days  after  this  that  Bertha  sat 
one  morning  cutting  out  garments  for  little 
Rich  and  Mary,  when  Sarah  Latimer  came  in. 
The  children  greeted  her,  but  not  effusively. 
They  were  always  instructed  to  be  on  their  best 
behavior  in  her  presence,  and  regarded  her 
more  as  an  awe-inspiring  companion,  who  read 
to  them,  took  them  walking,  and  picked  up 
blocks  for  them,  than  as  a  friend  to  be  loved; 
she  was  always  oppressively  quiet  while  they 
chattered. 

"Sit  down,  Sarah,"  said  Bertha  cordially, 
sweeping  a  pile  of  cambrics  from  a  chair. 
"Here's  a  fan,  if  you  want  it,  but  you  don't 
look  a  bit  hot;  you  never  do.  I  think  you're 
pale  this  morning.  Aren't  you  well  ?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Sarah  slowly.  Her  eyes 
had  a  dazed  look  in  them,  and  there  was  an  un- 
certain note  in  her  voice, 

Bertha  observed  her  critically.  Sarah's  drab 
gown,  made  with  severe  plainness,  took  all  the 
life  out  of  her  hair  and  complexion,  and  made 
[189] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

her  tall  figure  gaunt.  Bertha  cast  her  brown 
eyes  down  at  her  own  lilac  muslin,  overflowing 
with  little  rippling  frills  and  furbelows,  and 
sighed,  a  genuine  sigh  of  pity,  for  another 
woman's  misuse  of  her  opportunities. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  lately,  Sarah? 
I  haven't  seen  you  for  some  days." 

"Nothing  much,"  said  Sarah. 

"I  expected  you  yesterday;  Dick  Quimby 
asked  why  you  were  not  here.  He's  asked  after 
you  twice  lately,  Sarah.  I  think  he's  beginning 
to  be  fond  of  you." 

"Because  he  asked  after  me  twice?"  said 
Sarah.  "Perhaps  he'll  propose  to  me  to-mor- 
row." She  gave  a  spasmodic  laugh,  and  the 
color  came  and  went  in  her  face.  Bertha  gazed 
at  her  in  genuine  surprise. 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  you, 
Sarah,"  she  said.  "I'm  glad  you  came  in,  for 
I  wanted  to  ask  you  to  join  us  in  a  little  trip  to 
the  Lakes.  Dick  has  to  go  Thursday,  and  we 
have  concluded  to  make  up  a  party.  We'll  be 
gone  a  couple  of  weeks,  and  Mr.  Quimby  is  to 
join  us  there.  I  think  we'll  have  a  lovely  time." 

"You're  very  kind,"  said  Sarah,  pulling  nerv- 
ously at  her  fan,  "but  I  don't  think  I  can  go." 

"Why  not  ?    You  won't  have  to  dress." 

"It's  not  that.  The  fact  is—  Did  I  ever 
speak  to  you  of  Will  Bronson  ?" 

"No,  who  is  he?" 

[190] 


A  Matrimonial  Episode 


"I  had  almost  forgotten  that  myself,"  said 
Sarah,  "until  he  came  to  call  yesterday.  I  knew 
him  years  ago  when  I  was  a  young  girl;  we 
went  to  school  together.  He  was  a  nice  boy,  but 
I  never  had  much  to  do  with  him;  boys  never 
cared  for  me  as  they  did  for  other  girls.  At 
any  rate,  he  came  to  see  us  yesterday.  He  lives 
in  Idaho;  he's  been  out  there  for  a  dozen  years, 
and  he  says  he's  pretty  well  off." 

"Well,"  said  Bertha  expectantly,  as  the  other 
stopped,  "what  does  he  look  like?" 

"Oh,  he's  pretty  tall,  and  he  has  a  big  brown 
beard." 

"I  suppose  that  he  is  intellectual?" 

"Not  a  bit!  He's  very — very — Western. 
You  think  we  are  Western  here,  Bertha,  but 
we' re  Hot." 

"And  is  this  gentleman  stopping  with  you?** 
pursued  Bertha. 

"No,  he  left  for  New  York  to-day." 

"Then  why  can't  you  join  our  party  for  the 
Lakes?" 

"Because — "  The  fan  dropped  from  Sarah's 
fingers.  "The  truth  is,  Bertha,  he  asked  me  to 
marry  him;  that's  what  he  came  for." 

"What!"  cried  Bertha. 

"He  brought  some  letters  to  uncle,"  went  on 
Sarah,  "recommendations,  and  all  that,  and 
afterwards  he  spoke  to  me.  He  says  he's  al- 
ways thought  he'd  marry  me  when  he  had 
[191] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

time,  but  he  has  never  been  able  to  leave  the 
mines  before.  He  has  an  aunt  who  lives  here, 
and  she  has  written  to  him  about  me,  some- 
times. He  has  gone  on  to  New  York  for  a 
week,  and  wants  to  stop  back  here  over  one 
day  to  get  married  and  then  go  straight  out  to 
Idaho.  He  wanted  me  to  answer  him  yester- 
day, but  I  asked  him  to  give  me  until  this  morn- 
ing to  make  up  my  mind." 

"And  what  did  you  say  then  ?"  asked  Bertha 
breathlessly. 

"I  said  yes,"  said  Sarah. 

Bertha  rose  up,  heedless  of  all  her  sewing 
materials,  which  dropped  on  the  floor,  and 
walking  over  to  Sarah,  solemnly  embraced  her. 

"You  are  a  dear  girl,"  she  said.  Then  she 
took  Sarah's  hand  in  hers,  solicitously.  "Had- 
n't you  better  lie  down,  Sarah,  and  let  me 
bathe  your  forehead  and  get  you  a  glass  of  lem- 
onade?" 

"I'm  not  ill,"  said  the  girl  with  a  convulsive 
laugh. 

"You  are  just  shaking  all  over,"  said  Bertha, 
"and  no  wonder !  Do  you  think  you  love  him, 
Sarah?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  you  are  sure  he  loves  you?" 

"He  says  he  does." 

"And  does  he  seem  perfectly  splendid  to  you, 
dear?" 

[192] 


A  Matrimonial  Episode 


"I  guess  so,"  said  Sarah. 

"And  you  are  to  be  married — when?  A 
week  from  to-day?  Oh,  what  a  time  you  will 
have  getting  your  clothes!  And  to  think  I'll 
not  be  here  at  the  wedding — it's  too,  too  bad. 
Sarah,  I'm  just  delighted  with  you.  I  always 
knew  you  weren't  like  other  people;  most  girls 
wouldn't  have  dared." 

"Maybe  I'll  wish  that  I  hadn't,"  said  Sarah, 
and  the  dazed,  vacant  expression  came  back 
with  the  words. 

Richard  and  his  friends  were  at  first  incred- 
ulous when  Bertha  narrated  the  news  to  them ; 
then,  to  quote  Dick's  expression,  Sarah's  stock, 
in  the  general  estimation,  went  up  fifty  per  cent. 

"The  old  girl  must  have  had  something  jolly 
about  her,  after  all,"  he  said.  "You  were  right 
this  time,  Bertha.  I  met  this  Bronson  once,  and 
he's  a  good  fellow.  What  a  lot  of  courage  he 
must  have !" 

Bertha  only  met  Sarah  once  after  this  before 
she  left  for  the  Lakes.  She  saw  the  bride- 
groom's picture,  which  represented  him  as  a 
tall,  stalwart  fellow,  with  a  big  beard  and  mer- 
ry, honest  eyes.  Bertha  liked  the  face,  and  felt 
that  it  was  one  that  inspired  confidence. 

"To  think  that  after  all  my  planning  she 
should  have  done  it  just  by  herself,"  said 
Bertha  to  her  husband,  "and  it  was  such  an 
unlikely  thing." 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"It  is  singular  that  the  world  can  move  with- 
out your  pushing  it,"  replied  her  husband  with 
a  quizzical  smile. 

Within  a  few  months  the  Martindales'  plans 
were  broken  up ;  their  stay  West  was  no  longer 
necessary,  and  they  went  back  home  again. 
Bertha  received  one  letter  from  Sarah  after 
her  marriage,  a  singularly  flat  and  colorless 
epistle,  which  told  nothing.  Bertha  had  peri- 
odical times  of  wonderment  as  to  Sarah's  pres- 
ent life  and  chances  of  happiness.  Her  own 
short  experience  of  Western  life  resolved  itself 
mainly  into  a  recollection  of  the  girl  with 
whom,  after  all,  she  had  been  most  intimately 
associated,  and  who  had  disappeared  from  her 
horizon  so  suddenly  and  romantically. 

It  was  not  until  three  years  later  that  she 
heard  of  Sarah  again.  Then  she  received  a 
note  from  Mrs.  Bronson,  who,  it  appeared,  had 
come  East  for  a  few  days  and  was  stopping  at 
a  large  hotel  in  town. 

Bertha  was  delighted.  With  a  whimsical  re- 
membrance of  her  long,  tedious  days  with  Sa- 
rah was  a  real  affection  for  her.  She  left  the 
children  at  home,  although  they  clamored  to  be 
taken  to  see  their  old  friend. 

She  felt  that  there  was  so  much  to  talk  about 
that  she  must  be  absolutely  untrammeled.  How 
she  would  astonish  Dick  when  he  came  home ! 

As  she  ascended  in  the  gorgeous  elevator, 
[194] 


A  Matrimonial  Episode 


her  mind  mechanically  reverted  to  Sarah's  for- 
mer surroundings;  she  was  glad  to  be  able  to 
infer  that  the  silver  mines  had  proved  fortu- 
nate. She  was  shown  into  a  private  parlor, 
equally  gorgeous  in  its  appointments.  She 
heard  the  sound  of  a  laughing  voice  in  the  ad- 
joining room,  and  the  next  moment  a  portiere 
was  pushed  aside  and  Sarah  appeared.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  trailing  silken  tea-gown  of  a 
deep  crimson  tint — her  hair  shone  like  a  coronal 
of  gold,  there  was  a  rosy  flush  on  her  cheeks, 
and  her  eyes  gleamed  with  merriment.  In  her 
arms  she  held  a  handsome  baby  boy  of  about 
a  year  old,  who  suddenly  turned  and  ducked 
his  head  into  his  mother's  neck  as  he  saw  the 
stranger,  taking  hold  of  her  hair  with  both 
hands  and  giving  it  a  pull  that  loosened  its  fas- 
tenings and  sent  it  tumbling  around  them  both. 

"You  little  rogue,"  she  said.  "His  nurse  has 
gone  out  for  a  few  moments,  and  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  with  him.  Keep  still,  Wilfred." 

Two  small,  fat,  black-stockinged  feet,  like 
little  puddings,  were  kicking  wildly  in  a  vain 
attempt  to  get  up  on  her  shoulder,  and,  presum- 
ably, over  on  the  other  side,  where  his  head  and 
hands  already  were,  as  far  as  possible  from  the 
strange  lady. 

Sarah  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  clasping  the  boy 
in  one  arm;  with  the  other  she  swept  the  tum- 
bled hair  back  from  her  face. 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"Now  I  can  at  least  look  at  you,  Bertha,"  she 
said. 

Bertha  made  a  movement  forward  to  kiss 
her,  but  the  infant,  who  had  turned  his  head 
for  furtive  observation,  ducked  back  again  with 
renewed  scramblings  and  kicking  at  the  first 
indication  of  her  approach. 

"I  think  he  will  kill  me  soon,"  said  his  moth- 
er resignedly. 

"Where  is  your  Herbert  Spencer?"  Bertha 
couldn't  help  asking;  but  at  that  moment  the 
truant  nurse  arrived;  the  boy,  still  in  his  atti- 
tude of  clutching,  was  detached  from  his  mam- 
ma's gown,  one  hand  and  foot  at  a  time,  as  one 
separates  a  cat  from  a  cushion.  As  soon  as  this 
was  accomplished,  he  turned  and  fell  upon  his 
nurse  in  like  manner,  and  the  sight  of  a  round 
little  body,  entirely  headless,  with  two  waving 
black  feet,  was  Bertha's  last  view  of  the  heir  of 
the  Bronsons. 

The  two  women  clasped  hands  impulsively 
and  looked  at  each  other;  then  they  both  burst 
into  a  fit  of  laughter,  deliciously  inconsequent. 

"It  is  so  perfectly  ridiculous !"  said  Sarah  at 
last. 

"What?"  asked  Bertha. 

"Why,  that  it  is  I,  at  all.  It's  so  absurd  to 
think  that  that's  my  baby !  I  haven't  the  least 
idea  what  to  do  with  him." 

They  both  laughed  again,  helplessly. 
[196] 


A  Matrimonial  Episode 


"You  are  very  happy?"  asked  Bertha,  trying 
to  be  serious. 

"I  suppose  I  am.  Sometimes  I  think  every- 
thing is  topsy-turvy,  and  I  don't  see  straight; 
it's  all  so  different  from  the  life  I  used  to  live, 
but — it's  nice." 

"Do  you  keep  up  your  music?"  asked  Bertha 
again,  after  a  pause. 

"I  don't  keep  up  anything.  I  play  dance  mu- 
sic, and  read  the  newspapers.  I've  been  travel- 
ing nearly  all  the  time  since  I  was  married. 
Will's  business  keeps  us  flying,  for  one  reason 
or  another,  there  are  so  many  companies  that  he 
has  to  see.  I'm  always  packing  or  unpacking,  or 
in  a  Pullman  car,  and  I  think  always  that  when 
I  get  through  traveling  I  will  find  myself  back 
at  uncle's  once  more,  and  begin  to  dust  every- 
thing neatly.  You  know  that  we  go  off  again 
to-night.  I'm  so  sorry  you  won't  see  my  hus- 
band; he'll  not  be  back  here  until  train  time." 

"I'm  sorry,  too,"  said  Bertha. 

"I  want  to  thank  you  for  all  you  did  for  me 
in  the  old  days,"  pursued  her  hostess.  Their 
positions  were  reversed;  it  was  she  who  led  the 
conversation,  while  Bertha  replied. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  should  never 
have  been  married  at  all." 

"My  dear,  I  had  absolutely  nothing  to  do 
with  the  matrimonial  cyclone  which  swept  you 
off,"  said  Bertha,  laughing  again. 
[197] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"Yes,  you  did,  you  were  so  happy,  it  made 
me  very  envious  to  see  you  and  your  husband 
together.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that,  I  don't 
think  I'd  ever  have  had  the  courage  to  say  yes 
when  Will  asked  me.  And  you  were  so  kind 
and  good  to  me,  and  I  know  I'm  only  a  stupid 
thing  at  best." 

"You're  just  a  dear,"  said  Bertha  very 
warmly.  Then  the  two  women  had  a  long  and 
exhaustive  conversation,  before  they  finally 
parted. 

"She's  very  handsome,"  said  Bertha  to  her 
husband  that  night.  He  was  quite  interested 
and  curious  about  it  all.  "She's  rich,  and  she's 
happy.  Isn't  she  the  last  woman  on  earth  you 
would  have  imagined  such  a  romance  happen- 
ing to!" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Richard. 

"What  do  you  suppose  there  is  in  married 
life  to  improve  a  girl  so  ?  She's  not  in  the  least 
uninteresting  now." 

"Judge  from  your  own  experience,"  said 
Richard.  "Association  with  a  superior  being 
cannot  fail — " 

"You  need  not  say  any  more,"  said  Bertha 
with  the  scorn  expected  of  her.  Then,  with  a 
sudden  change  of  tone,  "If  she  had  married 
you,  darling,  instead  of  that  Bronson  man,  I 
could  have  understood  it — no  woman  could 
help  being  nicer  for  loving  you!" 
[198] 


Not  a  Sad  Story 


[199] 


Not  a  Sad  Story 

•HE  little  Rhodes  boy  was  dead.  Tfie 
two  women  who  slipped  out  of  the 
back  door  of  Mrs.  Rhodes's  house  had 
red  eyes,  and  conversed  in  low  tones  as  they 
came  down  the  street  facing  the  bitter  wind. 
One  of  them  wore  a  long  cloak  of  rich  fur, 
which  covered  her  from  throat  to  ankles,  but 
the  other  only  drew  her  short  gray  shawl  tight- 
ly around  her  and  walked  in  the  snow  with  feet 
encased  in  the  carpet  slippers  which  she  had 
worn  all  night.  Although  one  woman  was 
young,  and  the  other  well  past  middle  age,  they 
had  a  certain  likeness  in  the  haggard  look 
which  watching  and  grief  bring. 

The  early  morning  light  shone  wanly  over 
the  snow,  the  white  houses  with  their  closed 
blinds,  and  the  range  of  white  hills  beyond. 
The  smoke  was  beginning  to  rise  from  the 
kitchen  chimneys  at  the  back  of  some  of  the 
houses,  where  occasional  lights  were  seen  flick- 
ering to  and  fro,  and  the  smell  of  the  burning 
wood  pervaded  the  frosty  air. 

"You're  tired,"  said  the  older  woman  sud- 
denly, as  if  noticing  her  companion's  fatigue 
for  the  first  time. 

"So  are  you,  Mrs.  Rawls." 

[201] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"Oh,  I'm  used  to  it.  I  ain't  been  rested  since 
Jimmy  was  born,  and  that  was — let  me  see — 
thirty-five  year  ago.  There  ain't  a  week  passed 
in  all  that  time  that  I  haven't  planned  to  rest 
the  next  week,  but  I  ain't  never  compassed  it 
yet."  She  laughed  a  little  as  she  spoke,  and 
trudged  along  more  vigorously.  "I  guess  you 
ain't  often  been  out  at  this  time  in  the  mornin'." 

"Not  very  often,"  said  the  other.  Her  voice 
was  low  and  sweet,  with  a  little  tremulous 
catch  in  it,  as  if  she  were  almost  exhausted. 

"  "Tisn't  but  a  step  now  to  the  house,"  said 
Mrs.  Rawls  encouragingly.  "I  knew  the  sleigh 
wouldn't  be  down  for  you  for  a  couple  of  hours 
yet,  and  it  did  seem  best  to  leave  Mis'  Rhodes 
for  a  while,  with  just  Elmira  downstairs,  after 
we'd  done  all  we  could.  There'll  be  neighbors 
in  later,  and  people  to  inquire,  and  she  won't 
get  much  quiet.  She  wants  just  to  be  alone 
with  him  for  a  little.  That  dear  child — "  she 
stopped  and  choked  for  a  minute.  "There!  It 
don't  seem  right  to  cry,  and  him  so  sweet  and 
peaceful.  It  was  mighty  good  of  you  to  stay 
these  last  two  nights." 

"Oh,  don't,  don't !"  said  the  other  in  a  pained 
tone.  "As  if  I  could  have  helped  wanting  to 
stay !  It  was  so  good  of  her  to  let  me.  All  that 
I  could  do  seemed  so  little.  She  was  so  brave, 
so  patient ;  I  shall  never  forget  it,  and  that  sweet 
child — "  she  stopped  as  Mrs.  Rawls  had  done. 

[202] 


Not  a  Sad  Story 

"Why,  it  was  only  last  week  that  I  was  walk- 
ing along  here  in  the  snow,  and  he  ran  across 
the  street  to  me  and  said :  'It's  so  slippery  here 
now,  Mrs.  Armstrong,  I'm  afraid  you'll  fall; 
you  had  better  lean  on  me.'  He  put  out  his 
little  hand  for  me  to  take,  as  seriously  as  you 
please,  and  I  let  him  help  me  over  the  crossing. 
I  can  see  his  blue  eyes  now,  with  that  merry 
light  in  them,  gazing  at  me.  It  doesn't  seem 
possible — " 

"Hardly  a  morning  passed,"  said  Mrs. 
Rawls,  "that  was  fit  for  him  to  be  out,  that  he 
didn't  put  his  head  in  at  my  door  and  say,  'How 
are  you,  Mis'  Rawls?  Can  I  do  anything  for 
you?'  He  was  just  like  a  bit  of  sunshine,  with 
his  curly  golden  head.  It  don't  appear  as  if  it 
could  be  right  that  such  as  him  should  be  took 
— him  as  was  just  born  to  be  a  blessing,  and  his 
mother  without  a  soul  in  the  world  but  the 
boy,  and  they  all  in  all  to  each  other.  I  can't 
understand  it,  nohow." 

"It  is  very  difficult,"  said  the  other  with  a 
long-drawn  sigh.  "My  heart  just  aches  for 
her,  she  seems  so  alone.  Is  this  your  house, 
Mrs.  Rawls  ?  It  is  odd,  isn't  it,  that  we've  both 
lived  here  all  these  years,  and  yet  this  is  the 
first  time  I've  ever  known  you  to  speak  to.  I 
always  thought  you  had  such  a  kind  face.  I've 
often  felt  that  I'd  like  to  speak  to  you,  but  I 
didn't  know  how." 

[203] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"Why,  my  dear!"  said  Mrs.  Rawls,  stopping 
on  the  threshold,  her  countenance  fairly  illu- 
mined with  pleased  surprise ;  "you  that's  so  rich 
and  proud  and  handsome — why,  I  never  even 
sensed  that  you  saw  me.  You  afraid  to  speak  to 
me!  Well,  that  does  beat  all !  But  you're  just 
done  out  now,  poor  child;  come  right  in  here! 
I'm  going  to  slip  off  your  cloak,  so,  and  lay  you 
right  down  on  the  lounge  and  make  you  a  good 
hot  cup  of  coffee,  and  then  you've  got  to  take 
a  little  nap  before  the  sleigh  comes  for  you." 

Almost  before  she  knew  Helen  Armstrong 
was  lying  on  the  old  chintz  lounge  with  Mrs. 
Rawls's  gray  shawl  wrapped  around  her  feet. 
The  room  was  small,  low-ceilinged,  and  home- 
ly, filled  with  evidences  of  daily  occupation; 
nothing  could  be  further  removed  from  her 
own  luxurious  chamber,  yet  she  felt  an  unwont- 
ed sensation  of  comfort  which  reached  its 
height  after  the  fragrant  coffee  had  been  swal- 
lowed, and  Mrs.  Rawls's  motherly  hand  had 
smoothed  back  the  pillows  for  her.  Helen 
caught  the  hand  and  held  it  tight  in  her  own 
for  a  minute,  before  she  turned  over  on  one 
side  and  closed  her  eyes.  It  was  years  since  she 
had  been  taken  care  of.  It  was  she  who  planned 
and  gave  orders  for  the  comfort  of  others,  but 
she  had  no  near  relatives  of  her  own,  and  hers 
had  been  the  personal  isolation  which  state  and 
riches  bring. 

[204] 


Not  a  Sad  Story 

With  her  eyes  closed,  she  thought  of  many 
thing-s;  of  her  old  school  friend  Anne  Rhodes, 
whom  she  had  always  been  fond  of,  yet  with 
whom  she  had  kept  up  but  a  spasmodic  inter- 
course since  marriage  had  claimed  both  lives. 

Most  of  Anne's  unfortunate  wedded  life  had 
been  spent  in  the  far  West,  and  when  she 
came  back  four  years  ago  in  straitened  circum- 
stances, with  the  child,  the  breadth  of  riches 
and  a  different  way  of  living  still  divided  them. 
But  with  the  boy  it  was  otherwise.  The  little 
fellow,  with  his  blue  eyes,  his  sunny  smile,  his 
trusting  heart,  and  his  infant  manliness,  had 
touched  a  chord  that  it  half  frightened  Helen 
to  feel  vibrating  so  strongly.  That  chord  be- 
longed to  the  far  past — another  child  had  made 
its  harmony.  A  little  grave  had  its  depths  in 
Helen's  heart,  although  she  had  kept  it  out  of 
sight  for  many  years;  it  almost  scared  her  to 
feel  that  it  was  still  there,  and  yet  it  was  sweet, 
too.  When  she  put  her  arms  around  little  Silvy 
Rhodes,  he  was  like  an  angel  of  resurrection. 
When  she  had  taken  him  home  in  her  carriage 
out  of  the  wet  snow  not  a  week  ago,  his  cheeks 
rosy  red,  his  tongue  chattering  sweetly,  his  eyes 
looking  at  her  so  confidingly,  she  did  not  dream 
that  it  was  for  the  last  time.  The  mortal  ill- 
ness had  stolen  upon  him  in  the  night,  and  Hel- 
en had  gone  to  inquire,  and  then  stayed  to 
help. 

[205] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

Somehow  trouble  brought  back  the  old  days 
when  Anne  had  leaned  on  her  for  comfort  and 
protection.  Helen  had  always  felt  a  nervous 
dread  of  a  sick  room,  yet  she  had  stayed,  and 
was  glad — glad  of  it!  No  one  would  ever 
know  how  many  necessaries  her  money  had 
supplied  to  the  dying  child  and  the  stricken 
mother.  "John  Sylvester  Rhodes,  aged  eight 
years."  The  formal  words  glanced  across  her 
thoughts  unbidden,  and  brought  a  sudden  hot 
rush  of  tears. 

She  wondered  whether  her  husband  was  sur- 
prised that  she  had  stayed  away.  Perhaps  he 
didn't  even  know  it,  they  were  together  so  lit- 
tle these  days,  and  she  remembered  that  he  had 
gone  on  a  journey  about  that  syndicate.  There 
would  be  nobody  at  home  but  Kathleen. 
Kathleen!  Her  face  reddened.  Kathleen 
would  have  full  scope  in  her  absence.  Hel- 
en wondered  if  she  had  taken  advantage  of 
it  to  see  that  man.  No,  the  girl  would  do  noth- 
ing underhand.  It  was  unimaginable  that  a 
girl  like  Kathleen  Armstrong,  her  husband's 
sister,  should  have  fallen  in  love  with  James 
Sandersfield,  now  the  superintendent  of  the 
hat  factory  in  which  he  had  been  a  common 
"hand"  for  many  years.  How  unfortunate 
that  she  had  met  him  on  that  visit  South !  It 
could  never  have  happened  in  their  own  town. 
Helen  had  felt  deeply  with  her  husband's  dis- 
[206] 


Not  a  Sad  Story 

gust,  for  Kathleen  had  been  immodestly  ob- 
stinate; what  the  outcome  would  be  they  did 
not  know;  Helen  grew  hot  with  the  thought. 
She  had  forgotten  where  she  was  till  Mrs. 
Rawls's  voice  came  to  her  through  the  half-open 
door,  crooning  an  old  hymn  tune  in  the  kitchen; 
and  the  tears  came  again  to  her  eyes.  The  dear 
old  soul — she  thought,  and  then  once  more 
came  the  feeling  of  Silvy's  warm,  chubby  hand 
as  he  helped  her  over  the  slippery  crossing — 
and  Helen  slept. 

"You  needn't  go  in  there,"  said  Mrs.  Rawls 
impressively,  as  one  of  her  friends  appeared  an 
hour  later.  "Mis'  Armstrong's  asleep  on  the 
lounge.  She's  clean  beat  out  watchin'.  I  sent 
the  coachman  back  to  the  stable  when  he  came 
for  her  just  now;  I  wouldn't  have  her  woke." 

"It  don't  seem  possible  that  little  Silvy's 
gone,"  said  the  newcomer  in  an  awestricken 
voice.  "I  just  come  up  the  street  now,  and  I 
could  hardly  get  here  for  people  stopping  me 
to  ask  about  it.  Old  Squire  Peters  himself 
halted  the  sleigh  and  sent  Miss  Isabel  over  to 
inquire.  She  said  if  there  was  anything  in  the 
world  they  could  do,  to  let  them  know ;  and  she 
was  goin'  home  to  fix  up  something  that  might 
tempt  Mis'  Rhodes  to  eat,  for  I  told  them  she 
hadn't  taken  hardly  a  mouthful  for  the  last  two 
days.  And  you  know  them  two  ladies  in  black 
that  moved  into  the  big  house  on  the  hill  last 
[207] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

fall?  One  of  them  came  up  afterward  and 
said, 

"  'You  don't  mean  that  that  dear  little  boy 
with  the  blue  eyes  and  yellow  hair,  who  lived 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  is  dead!' 

"And  when  I  said  yes,  'twas  as  true  as  Gos- 
pel, though  the  dear  Lord  alone  knew  why  it 
was  so,  she  looked  almost  as  if  she  were  cry- 
ing, and  said,  'Oh,  do  you  think  his  mother 
would  mind  if  I  sent  her  some  flowers  from  our 
greenhouse?  I  don't  know  her  at  all,  but  we 
have  had  sorrow  ourselves;  and  the  dear  little 
boy  brought  us  some  golden-rod  just  the  day 
we  came  here — it  seemed  like  a  welcome  to  us." 

"I  told  her  I  would  tell  Mis'  Rhodes  'twas 
for  Silvy's  sake." 

"What  beats  me,"  said  another  woman,  who 
had  joined  the  other  two,  "is  why  the  Lord 
should  take  Silvy — 'the  only  son  of  his  mother, 
and  she  a  widow' — cut  off  that  child  before  his 
time,  and  leave  old  Gran'pa  Slade  dodderin' 
'round,  who  is  near  ninety  and  ain't  never  been 
no  good  to  nobody  all  his  days.  There's  Ame- 
lia Slade  with  her  own  mother  and  sister  to 
care  for,  an'  him  always  a  trouble.  It  does 
seem  that  the  old  might  be  taken  before  the 
young,  when  they  just  cumber  the  ground,  like 
gran'pa." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  he's  much  care  to  Ame- 
lia, Mis'  Beebe,"  said  the  first  visitor,  Mehit- 
[208] 


Not  a  Sad  Story 

able  Phelps.  "She's  always  grudged  him  his 
keep,  as  far  as  I  see.  Not  but  what  he  is 
tryin'." 

;*Mis'  Rawls!  Mis'  Beebe!  Hitty  Phelps!" 
cried  another  comer  breathlessly.  "Do  some- 
body come  over  to  Mis'  Slade's;  gran'pa's  in  a 
dreadful  way,  cryin'  and  moanin'  about  little 
Silvy's  death.  He  says  he'd  oughter  have  been 
took  instead,  and  that  he's  no  good  to  anybody. 
'Melia's  afraid  he'll  take  his  life;  she  never 
sensed  before  that  he  felt  his  age  so." 

The  three  women  gazed  at  each  other  with  a 
scared  expression  as  they  rose  to  the  summons. 
"Well,  I  presume  it  ain't  his  fault  that  he's  let 
to  live,"  said  one. 

"I  tell  you  what,"  said  Mrs.  Beebe.  "I'll 
send  Josiah  around  with  the  cutter  to  bring 
grandpa  over  to  our  house  to  spend  the  day 
and  get  a  good  dinner.  All  he  needs  is  cocker- 
in'  up;  I  don't  believe  he's  had  an  outing  in 
dear  knows  when,  and  a  change  will  hearten 
him.  You  coming  with  us,  Mis'  Rawls?" 

"I'll  just  step  along  a  piece  to  Emma  Tay- 
lor's," said  Mrs.  Rawls,  getting  down  her 
shawl  from  a  hook.  "I  won't  be  gone  a  min- 
ute. I'd  clean  forgot  the  baby  was  sick." 

She  glanced  into  the  sitting-room,  and  then, 
closing  the  outer  door  noiselessly  behind  her, 
hurried  up  the  street  with  her  friends. 

She  was  welcomed  at  the  little  white  cottage 
[209] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

where  she  stopped  by  a  pretty,  worn-looking 
young  woman,  who  came  to  the  door  with  a 
baby  in  her  arms  and  two  small  children  pull- 
ing at  her  skirts. 

"Oh,  we're  all  right,"  she  said  cheerfully, 
in  answer  to  Mrs.  Rawls.  "Come  in;  you'll 
be  surprised  to  see  John  around  at  this  time  of 
day — here  he  is  now.  He's  staying  home  a 
spell  on  account  of  Mrs.  Rhodes.  The  Batchel- 
lor  boys  brought  her  wood,  and  Mr.  Fellows's 
coachman  shoveled  off  the  snow,  but  we 
thought  she  might  like  to  feel  there  was  a  man 
waiting  near  to  call  upon  if  she  wanted  any- 
thing." 

"Let  me  take  the  baby,  Emma,"  said  her  hus- 
band, "you're  tired,  dear." 

He  stretched  out  his  arms  and  took  the  child, 
holding  the  little  white  face  fondly  against  his 
own  bearded  one. 

"Poor  little  man,  he  didn't  sleep  much  last 
night;  kept  us  both  awake;  but  we  didn't  care 
a  mite  for  that,  we  were  so  glad  we  had  him. 
Do  you  see  his  light  curls  ?  Emma  and  I  think 
he  has  a  look  of  Silvy,  Mrs.  Rawls." 

"I  don't  know  but  he  has,"  said  Mrs.  Rawls 
as  she  turned  toward  the  outer  world  once 
more. 

"Must  you  go,  Mrs.  Rawls  ?  It  was  kind  of 
you  to  stop  in.  If  you  see  Mrs.  Rhodes  you'll 
tell  her,  please,  that  John's  waiting  home  so's 

[210] 


Not  a  Sad  Story 

she  can  feel  there's  a  man  near  her  to  call  on  if 
she  wants  for  anything." 

"She's  bound  to  be  awake,  now,"  thought 
Mrs.  Rawls  as  she  hurried  home  to  her  guest. 

Helen  had  wakened  suddenly  in  the  empty, 
quiet  house.  She  could  not,  in  a  sort  of  sweet, 
drowsy  contentment,  understand  at  once  where 
she  was.  She  gradually  realized  that  a  big 
wooden  clock  on  the  mantel  ticked  with  a  loud, 
aggressive  noise,  that  a  teakettle  was  singing 
somewhere,  and  that  a  large  faded  red  hood 
hung  on  the  brown-papered  wall  directly  in  her 
line  of  vision,  with  a  many-flowered  pink  gera- 
nium on  a  shelf  below.  She  was  closing  her 
eyes  once  more  when  a  loud  knock  on  the  outer 
door  startled  her  instantly  into  a  sitting  posi- 
tion. The  knock  was  followed  by  another, 
more  tentative;  then  the  door  opened,  and  a 
footstep  was  heard  inside.  Helen  jumped  has- 
tily up  and  went  toward  the  kitchen. 

A  tall  man  stood  there,  drumming  with  his 
fingers  absently  on  the  table  while  he  waited. 
He  raised  his  head  quickly  as  she  entered,  and 
she  saw  that  he  had  a  tfyjn,  clean-shaven  face 
with  firm  lips  and  dark,  steady  eyes.  His  dress 
was  the  dress  of  a  gentleman.  Although  Helen 
had  never  spoken  to  him,  she  knew  that  this 
was  James  Sandersfield. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  stiffly,  "I  came 
for  Mrs.  Rawls.  I  was  sent  for  Mrs.  Rawls." 

[211] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"She  must  have  gone  out,"  said  Mrs.  Arm- 
strong, "but  I  am  sure  that  she  will  be  back 
soon.  The  message — " 

"Is  from  Mrs.  Rhodes,"  said  the  stranger, 
taking  up  his  hat,  "Mrs.  Rhodes  would  like 
Mrs.  Rawls  to  come  over  to  her  when  she  can.'-' 

"Is  she — "  Helen  began. 

"She  is  very  quiet — very  peaceful.  I  did  not 
expect  to  see  her  this  morning,  but  she  had  sent 
for  me;  she  knew — "  He  bit  his  lip,  and 
stopped  as  if  it  were  very  hard  to  go  on;  his 
steady  eyes  met  hers  with  a  certain  piteousness 
in  them.  "I — I  carried  Silvy  downstairs;  she 
said  I  was  so  strong  it  was  a  comfort  to  her  to 
have  me  do  it."  He  stopped  again  and  turned 
away  his  head.  "I  loved  the  child,"  he  added 
after  a  minute,  very  simply. 

"I  am  glad  you  were  with  her;  I  know  it  was 
a  comfort,"  said  Helen.  Her  eyes  roved  over 
the  man's  tall  figure  thoughtfully.  "And  I  am 
glad  that  I  was  in  to  take  your  message,  Mr. 
Sandersfield,"  she  added  a  little  coldly.  "I  am 
Mrs.  Armstrong." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  he  replied  with  a  gesture 
that  was  almost  rough  in  its  curtness.  He 
stood  as  if  he  were  about  to  speak  further,  then 
hesitated,  and  finally  turned  resolutely  away. 
"Good  morning,"  he  said  as  he  passed  out  of 
the  door,  but  Helen  did  not  answer.  To  her 
that  pause  had  been  strangely  voiceful  of  Kath- 

[212] 


Not  a  Sad  Story 

leen;  she  tingled  to  the  very  finger  tips  with 
the  strong  current  of  his  thoughts.  She  could 
not  tell  whether  she  resented  it  or  not. 

Mrs.  Rawls  was  full  of  pleasure  that  her  vis- 
itor had  slept  so  long.  The  sleigh  was  once 
more  waiting  for  Helen.  "Tell  Mrs.  Rhodes 
I  will  be  with  her  later,"  she  said  as  she  tucked 
herself  comfortably  in,  and  lay  back  against  the 
red  velvet  cushions.  The  glare  of  the  sunshine 
on  the  snow  dazzled  her. 

"Ma'am,"  said  a  voice  in  her  ear.  The 
coachman  was  waiting  to  let  some  teams  pass. 
"Ma'am,  may  I  speak  to  ye?"  She  turned, 
startled,  to  find  a  large,  gaunt,  bearded  man 
standing  beside  her,  with  his  big,  hairy  hand 
laid  detainingly  on  the  sleigh.  His  working 
clothes  had  all  the  color  worn  out  of  them. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Helen,  drawing  back. 

"As  I  come  up  I  seen  white  crape  and  rib- 
bons on  the  door  below,  and  I  just  heard  ye 
speak  her  name,  ma'am;  it's  not  the  gay  little 
felly  with  the  light  curls  that's  dead?" 

"Oh,  it  is,"  cried  Helen,  the  tears  coming  to 
her  eyes. 

The  man  took  off  his  hat  and  stood  bare- 
headed in  the  snow,  his  lips  moving,  though 
Helen  heard  no  sound. 

"He  was  one  of  the  Lord's  own,"  he  said 
after  a  minute  in  a  husky  voice.  "Sure  He 
knows  best.  Not  a  day  that  little  felly  passed 
[213] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

us  a-workin'  on  the  road  but  he  had  a  word  for 
each  man!  Sure  he  was  known  all  over  this 
town.  'Twas  no  more  than  a  couple  of  weeks 
ago  that  he  brought  home  Mike  O'Brien's  little 
gell  that  was  sitting  in  a  puddle  in  Dean  Street, 
and  she  just  free  of  the  measles.  Ma'am,  my 
heart's  sore  for  the  boy's  mother,  and  she  a 
widdy.  Would  ye  just  tell  her  that  me  and  me 
mates  would  turn  our  hands  to  any  work  for 
her  for  the  boy's  sake?  Sure  there's  no  other 
work  a-doin'  this  weather." 

"If  you  will  come  up  to  Lawndale  this  after- 
noon Mr.  Armstrong  will  see  about  some  em- 
ployment for  you,"  said  Helen  hurriedly.  "Do 
you  know  the  place  ?  The  big  stone  house  with 
the  pillars  ?  Yes,  that  is  right.  And  I  will  tell 
Mrs.  Rhodes.  Drive  on,  Benson." 

The  richly-appointed,  quiet  mansion  that  she 
entered  was  a  change,  indeed,  from  the  meager 
little  house,  sickness-crowded,  where  she  had 
been  watching  for  two  days  and  nights,  or  from 
the  homely  room  she  had  just  left  in  the  nurse's 
cottage.  The  velvet-shod  silence  seemed  al- 
most an  alien  thing.  Not  in  years  had  she  felt 
so  alive,  so  warm  at  the  heart  with  other  peo- 
ple's loves  and  sorrows  brought  close  to  it. 
Habit  should  not  chill  her  yet  into  the  indif- 
ferent self -centered  woman  whose  cold  manner 
and  shy  distrust  of  herself  kept  her  solitary. 

She  was  glad  when  her  maid  asked  her  tim- 
[214] 


Not  a  Sad  Story 

idly  some  question  about  little  Silvy,  and  an- 
swered with  a  cordiality  that  surprised  herself, 
although  she  was  always  kind,  taking  note  of  a 
cold  the  girl  had,  and  giving  her  some  simple 
remedy  for  it.  "What  is  it,  Margaret?"  she 
asked,  seeing  that  the  girl  lingered  as  if  she 
wished  to  speak. 

Margaret  hesitated.  "Mrs.  Armstrong,  we 
do  all  be  feelin'  so  bad  for  the  sweet  child  that's 
gone.  May  the  saints  comfort  his  mother! 
And  I  was  thinking,  ma'am,  to-morrow  is  my 
day  out,  and  if  it's  not  making  too  bold  I  could 
take  my  clean  cap  and  apron  with  me  and  stay 
at  the  house  to  open  the  door  for  the  people 
that'll  be  troopin'  there — if  you  think  I  might, 
maybe.  I  know  she's  a  lady  born,  and  'twould 
be  no  more  than  she  was  used,  to  have  things 
dacent." 

"You  are  a  good  girl,  Margaret,"  said  Helen, 
more  moved  than  she  cared  to  show.  "Yes,  in- 
deed, you  shall  go." 

Kathleen  came  in  later.  Her  cheeks  were 
scarlet  from  the  cold  wind,  her  dark  hair  was 
tangled  and  blown,  there  was  a  rushing  vigor 
in  her  movements  as  of  exuberant  young  health 
and  bounding  impulse.  She  kissed  her  quiet 
sister-in-law  impetuously  and  threw  her  cap 
and  furs  from  her  before  she  seated  herself  by 
the  blazing  wood  fire.  Helen  looked  at  her 
from  a  new  standpoint — she  was  trying  to 
[215] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

fancy  that  glowing,  tumultuous  young  beauty 
by  the  side  of  James  Sander sfield's  rugged 
strength,  trying  to  fancy  his  steady  eyes  gazing 
into  those  flashing  ones.  The  feeling  of  repug- 
nance might  be  lessened,  but  it  was  still  there ! 
Why,  Kathleen  had  patrician  written  in  every 
line  of  her  face,  in  every  curve  of  her  body,  in 
her  least  gesture. 

"I've  just  come  from  the  Country  Club," 
said  the  girl,  shielding  her  face  with  one  slim 
hand  from  the  blaze  of  the  fire. 

"What  on  earth  could  you  do  this  morning  ? 
Play  golf  in  the  snow  ?" 

"Oh,  we  tried  to,  but  it  didn't  amount  to  any- 
thing. A  lot  of  us  got  around  the  fire  in  the 
hall  and  talked.  They  said —  But  sister, 
aren't  you  tired?  Weren't  you  up  all  night? 
Have  you  been  home  long?" 

"I  did  sit  up  all  night,"  said  Helen,  "but  I 
am  not  tired,  and  I  have  been  home  for  some 
time." 

"And  she — poor  Mrs.  Rhodes?" 

"I  left  her  very  quiet,  dear." 

"There!"  said  Kathleen  stormily,  "we  could 
talk  of  nothing  else  this  morning  but  darling, 
darling  little  Silvy,  and  of  her.  Of  course  they 
don't  all  know  Mrs.  Rhodes,  but  every  one  had 
seen  him,  at  any  rate.  It  seems  so  dreadful  for 
her  to  lose  all  she  had  in  the  world !  She  isn't 
very  young,  is  she?" 

[216] 


Not  a  Sad  Story 

"About  my  age,  dear." 

"Well,  that's  not  old,  of  course,  but  still — 
What  I  can't  make  out,  sister,  is  why  she  should 
be  afflicted  in  this  way.  Mrs.  Harper  had 
known  her,  like  you,  ever  since  she  was  a  little 
girl,  and  she  has  had  so  many  troubles;  all  her 
people  died  soon  after  she  was  married,  and  her 
husband  was  not — nice,  and  he  lost  all  her 
money  before  he  died,  and  she  has  always  been 
so  good  and  lovely  and  patient  and  uncom- 
plaining, so  earnestly  striving  to  do  right,  so 
that  Mrs.  Harper  says  she  has  been  an  example 
to  everyone.  Why  should  she  have  this  ter- 
rible, terrible  blow  fall  upon  her  ?  Why  should 
her  sweet,  darling  little  child  be  taken  away? 
What  has  she  done  that  she  should  be  punished 
so?  It  seems  wrong — wrong!  I  don't  under- 
stand it." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't,  either,"  said  Helen  very 
low.  She  put  her  hand  on  her  heart  for  a  min- 
ute and  looked  up,  smiling  a  little  wistfully. 
Her  own  trouble  was  so  old  that  people  had  for- 
gotten it. 

"We  nearly  got  crying,"  pursued  Kathleen, 
"all  the  girls,  I  mean.  Harvey  Spencer  tried 
to  make  us  laugh;  he  told  jokes — horrid  ones. 
Oh,  how  silly  he  was !  I  hate  society  men.  But 
it  seemed  as  if  we  couldn't  get  off  the  subject; 
first  one  thing  brought  it  up,  and  then  another. 
Everybody  wants  to  do  something  for  Mrs. 
[217] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

Rhodes.  What  I  was  going  to  tell  you  was 
that  Mary  Barbour  said  she  believed  that  sweet 
little  Silvy  was  taken  because  his  mother  made 
an  idol  of  him ;  that  you  shouldn't  love  anybody 
so  much — that  it  was  wrong.  I  don't  believe 
it,  sister!  I  don't  believe  it;  you  can't  love  any- 
one too  much !  People  forget  what  love  means, 
and  it  seems  unnatural  to  them  when  we  love  as 
much  as  we  can.  Oh,  you  may  look  at  me !  I 
think  of  a  great,  great  many  things  I  never  tell. 
You  and  my  brother  Orrin,  who  have  done 
everything  and  had  everything,  you  think  me 
silly  and  romantic,  but  I  am  wiser  than  you. 
It's  because  you've  forgotten.  Why,  there's 
nothing  but  love  that  makes  life  worth  living !" 
said  young  Kathleen,  her  voice  thrilling 
through  the  room.  "I  shall  never  try  to  love 
only  a  little,  no  matter  what  happens,  but  as 
much,  as  much,  as  much,  always,  as  God  will 
let  me,  if  I  die  for  it  myself !" 

She  went  over  to  Helen  and  flung  herself 
down  on  the  floor  beside  her,  and  laid  her  head 
in  Helen's  lap. 

"He  will  let  you,"  said  Helen  with  an  un- 
steady voice.  Something  in  her  tone  made  the 
girl  raise  her  head  suddenly — their  eyes  met  in 
a  long  look,  and  a  deep  rose  overspread  Kath- 
leen's face  before  she  hid  it  again.  To  the  elder 
woman  had  come  quite  unbidden  a  picture  of 
a  man  carrying  tenderly  in  his  strong  arms  the 
[218] 


Not  a  Sad  Story 

white,  still  body  of  a  little  dead  child.  She 
would  like  to  have  told  Kathleen  if  shyness  had 
not  held  her  tongue.  After  all,  he  did  not  seem 
quite  unworthy.  If  Orrin  thought — 

He  made  a  grimace  when  she  told  him  in  the 
brief  half  hour  they  had  together  before  she  left 
the  house. 

"It  is  only  the  conclusion  I  had  been  coming 
to,"  he  said.  "There  is  nothing  personally 
against  the  man;  I  almost  wish  there  were.  I 
knew  Kathleen  would  be  too  much  for  us — 
Kathleen  and  love.  But  how  she  can  want 
him,  I  cannot  see." 

"Ah,  but,  Orrin,  we  don't  either  of  us  have 
to  marry  him,"  said  his  wife.  "I  have  just 
found  out  that  it's  Kathleen's  happiness,  not 
ours,  that  is  at  stake.  What  are  you  looking 
at?" 

He  had  walked  over  to  her  dressing  table, 
where  there  stood  the  faded  photograph  of  a 
little  child,  with  a  vase  of  flowers  near  it.  He 
gazed  steadily  at  it  without  speaking. 

"I  always  thought  this  better  than  the  large 
portrait,"  he  said  at  last  huskily.  "You  have 
not  had  it  out  in  some  time." 

"No,"  she  replied,  "the  frame  wanted  repair- 
ing, and  the  picture  had  grown  so  dim  I — I 
couldn't  bear  to  see  it,  someway.  But  to-day 
— oh,  Orrin,  I  have  been  so  longing  to  have 
someone  remember — " 

[219] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

"I  have  never  forgotten,"  he  said;  "did  you 
think  that?  It  is  only  that  I  am  so  busy,  there 
are  so  many  things  that  crowd  upon  me  that  I 
don't  get  a  chance  to  tell  you.  I  gave  a  thou- 
sand dollars  to  the  Children's  Hospital  to-day 
for  little  Silvy's  sake — and  our  child's.  Why, 
Helen,  Helen,  Helen!  Poor  girl,  poor  girl,  I'll 
have  to  look  after  you  more,  I  shall  not  allow 
you  to  go  again  to-night." 

"But  it  has  done  me  more  good  than  any- 
thing else  in  this  world,"  said  his  wife.  "I've 
been  one  of  the  dead  souls  in  prison.  It's  not 
for  sorrow  that  I'm  crying,  Orrin,  not  for  sor- 
row alone — oh,  for  so  much  else,  dear!  And 
now  I  must  go,  and  I  think  my  man  is  down- 
stairs for  some  work  from  you,  and  I'll  say 
good-by  until  to-morrow." 

When  Helen  reached  her  friend's  house  she 
found  the  clergyman  just  descending  the  steps. 
It  was  beginning  to  snow  again  in  the  dusk, 
and  he  buttoned  his  overcoat  tightly  around  his 
spare  figure  as  he  came  forward  to  assist  her 
from  the  sleigh. 

"Mrs.  Rhodes  told  me  that  she  was  expecting 
you,"  he  said. 

"Then  have  you  seen  her?" 

"Yes,  for  a  few  minutes."     He  sighed  and 

stood    meditatively    looking    up    the    street. 

"Judge  Shillaber  has  just  been  here.     I  was 

surprised  to  see  him,  he  so  seldom  goes  out,  and 

[220] 


Not  a  Sad  Story 

never  seemed  to  take  any  interest  in  his  neigh- 
bors. But  perhaps  I  should  not  say  that,"  he 
added  hastily.  "Everyone  must  feel  the  blow 
that  has  fallen  here;  the  circumstances  are  so 
peculiarly  sad.  The  ways  of  the  Lord  are  very 
mysterious."  As  he  spoke  he  raised  his  face, 
which  was  thin  and  careworn  because  the  sor- 
rows of  his  people  weighed  very  heavily  upon 
him.  "The  ways  of  the  Lord  are  very  myste- 
rious. We  must  have  faith,  Mrs.  Armstrong, 
more  faith." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  cried  Helen,  "I  feel  that." 
"I  would  like  to  speak  to  you  about —  But 
I  must  not  keep  you  out  here.  There  is  Mrs. 
Rawls.  Another  time !"  He  hurried  off  down 
the  street,  while  Helen  found  herself  drawn  in- 
side the  door  by  Mrs.  Rawls  and  into  the  little 
dining-room,  where  the  blinds  were  open  some- 
what, now  that  the  evening  dusk  had  settled 
down.  The  room  was  warm  and  quiet,  with  a 
heavy  perfume  of  flowers  loading  the  air. 

"Such  a  time  as  we've  had !"  said  Mrs.  Rawls 
in  a  loud  whisper.  "Me  and  Mis'  Loomis  and 
Ellen  Grant  has  just  had  our  hands  full  seein' 
people.  Ellen's  as  deaf  as  a  post,  but  she  would 
stay,  and  she  set  by  the  winder  and  let  us  know 
when  she  seen  anyone  comin'  up  the  steps.  Mis' 
Dunham,  she  spelled  us  for  a  while.  You  never 
see  anything  like  it  in  all  your  born  days,  Mis' 
Armstrong!  The  hull  town's  been  here,  and 
[221] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

carriages  driving  up,  folks  some  of  'em  Mis' 
Rhodes  didn't  even  know,  comin'  to  inquire  or 
leave  cards.  There's  been  port  wine  sent  for 
her,  and  Tokay,  and  chicken  broth,  and  jellies 
— I  thought  there' d  been  enough  sent  last 
week  for  him,  but  they're  comin'  yet.  What  to 
do  with  'em  I  don't  know,  for  she  won't  touch 
nothin'.  And  there's  flowers,  flowers,  flowers ! 
— from  them  great  white  lilies  from  Colonel 
Penn's  greenhouse  to  a  little  wilty  sprig  o'  pink 
geranium  that  one  of  them  colored  children  at 
the  corner  brought  tied  with  a  white  ribbon, 
for  'little  Marse  Silvy';  the  child  was  cryin' 
when  she  came.  I  filled  her  full  of  broth  and 
jelly  before  she  went  home.  Some  of  the  things 
has  on  'em  'For  Silvy's  mother' — that  pleases 
her  best  of  all.  And  the  dear  child  lies  there  so 
peaceful  and  sweet —  She  put  the  geranium  by 
him  herself.  But  she's  waitin'  in  there  to  see 
you,  I  know." 

Such  a  slender,  drooping  figure  in  its  black 
garments  that  came  to  meet  Helen !  Such  pa- 
tience, such  gentleness  in  the  pale  face!  The 
tears  rose  once  more  to  Helen's  eyes  as  she  put 
her  protecting  arms  around  her  friend  and  held 
her  close  in  a  long  embrace. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,"  said  Anne  Rhodes 

at  last.    "I  want  you  to  sit  here  by  me,  we  shall 

be  alone  for  a  little  while.  There  is  something 

I  want  to  say — while  I  can."     Her  voice  was 

[222] 


Not  a  Sad  Story 

very  sweet  and  low,  and  her  tearless  eyes  were 
luminous.  "Let  me  take  your  hand — this  one; 
it  held  my  darling's  hand  when  he  was  dying. 
/  knew !  Dear  hand,  dear  hand !"  She  held  it 
close  to  her  cheek.  After  a  moment  she  went 
on.  "Such  love,  such  goodness!  I  never 
dreamed  of  anything  like  it,  that  people  should 
be  so  good.  I  want  you  to  tell  everyone — all 
who  have  done  the  least  thing  for  my  little 
child's  sake,  yes,  or  who  have  wanted  to  do 
anything,  that  never  while  my  life  lasts — I  hope 
it  won't  be  long — but  never  while  it  lasts  will 
I  forget  them,  never  will  I  cease  to  ask  God  to 
bless  them,  'to  reward  them  sevenfold  into  their 
bosom.'  I  have  been  praying  to-day,  when  I 
could  pray,  that  He  would  teach  me  how  to 
help  others,  that  the  world  might  be  better  be- 
cause my  little  child  had  lived  in  it,  and  I  had 
had  such  joy.  Helen,  you  will  not  forget?" 

"No,"  said  Helen.  She  drew  her  friend's 
head  to  her  shoulder,  and  they  spoke  no  more. 
It  grew  darker  and  darker  in  the  room  where 
they  sat,  but  in  the  next  chamber  the  moonlight 
poured  through  an  opening  in  the  curtains  and 
shone  upon  the  lovely  face  of  the  child  whose 
life  had  been  a  delight,  whose  memory  was  a 
blessing,  whose  death  touched  the  spring  of 
love  in  every  heart,  and,  for  one  little  heavenly 
space,  made  men  know  that  they  were  brothers. 

[223] 


Wings 


[225] 


Wings 

A  Study 


IT  was  a  lovely  morning  in  the  early  sum- 
mer that  Milly  Clark's  lover  brought 
her  the  engagement  ring  with  which 
she  was  also  to  be  wedded  some  sweet  day.  It 
was  a  plain  hoop  of  gold,  with  the  word  Miz- 
pah  graven  upon  its  inner  side,  not  because 
there  was  any  thought  of  parting  between  them 
then,  but  simply  in  accordance  with  a  somewhat 
sentimental  fashion  of  the  day.  Milly  had  been 
given  her  choice  between  the  ring  and  a  little 
padlocked  bracelet  of  which  Norton  was  to  keep 
the  key,  after  it  had  been  safely  fastened  on  her 
white  wrist,  and  this,  indeed,  appealed  to  all  the 
instincts  of  barbaric  womanhood,  in  its  sug- 
gestion of  a  lover's  mastery;  but  the  ring  was 
the  holier  symbol,  and  the  pledge  of  love  eter- 
nal. 

The  bees  were  buzzing  around  the  syringa 
bushes  in  the  corner  of  the  old-fashioned  gar- 
den, where  the  lovers  stood  looking  out  upon 
the  road  through  the  white  fence  which  was 
built  upon  a  stone  wall,  and  covered  with  climb- 
ing roses.  The  road,  shining  in  the  sunlight, 
[227] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

sloped  down  to  a  bridge  half  hidden  by  chest- 
nut trees,  and  beyond  was  a  glimpse  of  hills 
against  the  blue  sky  of  June.  The  air,  the 
countryside,  the  hum  of  unseen  insects,  con- 
tained that  suggestion  of  joy  unspeakable  that 
conies  only  at  this  heavenly  time  of  the  year, 
but  there  were  only  the  two  by  the  garden  wall 
to  feel  it  in  its  perfection  this  morning.  As  far 
as  the  eye  could  see  there  was  no  other  human 
being  anywhere.  At  eleven  o'clock  in  a  New 
England  village,  after  the  marketing  is  seen  to 
and  mail  time  over,  all  self-respecting  persons 
are  at  home  behind  the  bowed  green  blinds  of 
the  white  houses  by  the  roadside,  or  at  work 
farther  off  in  the  fields.  For  Milly  and  Norton 
to  be  out  in  the  garden  now  was  to  be  quite 
alone,  and  when  he  put  his  arm  around  her  and 
drew  her  down  beside  him  on  the  stone  wall 
among  the  roses,  she  only  smiled  confidingly 
up  into  his  face,  and  flushed  sweetly  as  he 
kissed  her. 

"I  can't  seem  to  get  used  to  it,"  she  said. 

"Get  used  to  what,  dear  ?" 

"Your — loving  me." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  get  used  to  it !"  he  cried 
fervently.  "I'm  sure  I  never  shall.  Why, 
when  we're  quite  old  people  it  will  be  just  the 
same  as  it  is  now.  Love  can  never  grow  old — 
not  ours,  anyway.  Can  it,  Milly !" 

She  gave  him  a  smile  for  answer  and  he 
[228] 


Wings 

gazed  down  at  her  admiringly,  taking  note  anew 
of  the  deep  blue  of  her  eyes,  the  little  veins  on 
her  forehead,  where  the  soft  brown  hair  was 
drawn  smoothly  back  from  it,  and  the  pure 
curve  of  her  throat  and  chin — a  face  of  the 
highest  New  England  type,  fine  and  beautiful. 
He  himself  was  the  product  of  a  different  civil- 
ization, and  cast  in  a  rougher  mold.  It  was 
the  very  difference  that  had  drawn  them  close 
together,  his  rude  strength  giving  sweetest 
promise  of  protection  to  her  delicate  fineness. 
She  sat  silently  looking  at  him,  her  soul  steeped 
in  a  delicious  dream. 

"Yes,  we  will  be  like  this  always,"  she  said 
at  last  with  almost  religious  solemnity. 

"Always,"  he  assented. 

"Only  growing  better  and  better  all  the  time, 
Norton.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  be  good 
enough  to  show  how  thankful  I  am  that  you 
love  me.  Do  you  think  I  ever  can  ?" 

"Hush,"  he  said,  frowning.  "You  must  not 
talk  in  that  way.  I'm  only  a  stupid,  common- 
place fellow  at  best,  not  half  good  enough  for 
you.  You'll  have  to  make  me  better." 

"Oh,  Norton !"  she  protested. 

"Ah,  never  mind  now,  dear!  You  haven't 
put  on  my  ring  yet,  Milly — remember  it  is  not 
to  come  off  until  I  have  to  put  it  on  the  next 
time — do  you  know  when  that  will  be?  When 
we  are  married,  when  you  are  mine,  really  and 
[229] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

forever.  May  that  day  soon  come!  Give  me 
your  hand  now,  dear,  and  let  me  'ring  your  fin- 
ger with  the  round  hoop  of  gold,'  as  you  were 
reading  to  me  last  night." 

"There  is  someone  coming,"  said  Milly  nerv- 
ously. She  stood  up  as  the  shadow  of  a  par- 
asol touched  the  roses,  and  met  the  gaze  of  the 
Episcopal  clergyman's  wife,  as  she  stopped  to 
rest,  panting  a  little,  by  the  garden  wall.  She 
was  a  thin  woman  in  a  black  and  white  print 
gown,  and  with  a  black  lace  bonnet  trimmed 
with  bunches  of  artificial  violets  surmounting 
her  sallow  face. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it,  Milly?"  she  asked  with 
a  kindly  inflection  of  her  rather  sharp  voice. 
"And  Mr.  Edwards,  too,  of  course.  Well, 
good  morning  to  you  both.  Isn't  it  a  perfect 
day !  A  little  hot  in  the  sun  though.  It  always 
tires  me  to  walk  up  this  hill;  I  have  to  stop  a 
moment  here  to  get  my  breath.  I  suppose 
you're  not  going  to  the  funeral,  either  of  you  ? 
No,  it's  not  a  bit  necessary,  but  I  fancied  you 
might  like  to  see  the  service  performed  as  it 
should  be  for  once." 

"I  did  not  know  anyone  had  died,"  said 
Milly. 

"My  dear,  it's  only  a  little  boy  from  the  poor- 
house.  His  relatives — such  as  he  had — are  not 
able  to  bury  him,  and  Mr.  Preston  did  want  to 
show  the  parish  what  a  properly  conducted 
[230] 


Wings 

funeral  was  like.  You  know  what  a  frightfully 
bigoted  place  this  is !  We  had  to  give  up  can- 
dles altogether,  Mr.  Edwards.  It  fairly  makes 
me  shiver  at  times — the  ignorance !  I  wonder 
— I  do  wonder,  they  don't  knock  the  cross  off 
the  spire  some  day,  because  it's  a  symbol.  I 
wonder  they  even  have  a  church,  instead  of  a 
circus  tent !" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Preston!"  remonstrated  Milly. 
She  glanced  sideways  nervously  at  Norton, 
who  was  picking  a  rose  to  pieces  with  an  imper- 
turbable expression. 

"You  will  hear  the  choir  boys  at  any  rate  as 
they  march  in  procession  around  the  grave," 
pursued  Mrs.  Preston,  raising  her  parasol 
again.  "I  don't  suppose  there  will  be  a  soul 
there  but  ourselves.  Well,  I  put  on  my  best 
bonnet,  anyway,  out  of  respect — I  know  you 
will  both  be  glad  when  I'm  gone,  although 
you're  too  polite  to  say  so." 

She  relaxed  into  a  quizzical  smile  as  she  re- 
garded them.  "Well,  good-by." 

"Thank  Heaven!  she's  gone  at  last,"  said 
Norton  with  boyish  petulance,  as  they  watched 
her  disappear  behind  the  evergreens  that  bor- 
dered the  churchyard.  "What  possessed  her  to 
give  us  so  much  of  her  society  just  now — the 
very  wrong  moment,  wasn't  it,  dear  ?  She  has 
left  me  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the 
noon  train  to  town,  and  I'll  not  be  back  until 
[231] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

Monday,  you  know,  this  time.  To  think  that  I 
shall  be  working  for  you  now,  Milly — for  a 
sweet  girl  in  a  blue  dress,  with  a  dimple  in  one 
cheek  and  long  brown  lashes  that  droop  lower 
and  lower  as  I — oh,  you  darling!"  They  both 
laughed  in  joyously  blissful  content. 

"Shall  I  put  the  ring  on  now  ?"  he  asked  after 
a  few  moments.  "Stand  up  beside  me,  then. 
There,  that  is  right.  This  is  our  betrothal, 
Milly.  Say  the  words,  dear,  since  you  would 
have  them,  while  I  slip  on  the  ring." 

"Let  us  say  them  together.  Oh,  Norton,  it 
is  to  be  forever !" 

"Forever.  Give  me  your  dear  hand.  Now 
with  me.  The  Lord'— The  Lord,'  "—her  clear 
voice  mingled  with  his  deep  one.  "The  Lord 
watch — between  thee — and  me — when  we  are 
parted — (but  we  never  shall  be!)  when  we 
are  parted — the  one  from  the  other."  The  ring 
shone  on  her  ringer,  their  lips  met  in  a  long 
kiss.  He  caught  her  to  him  and  laid  her  head 
upon  his  breast  and  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
and  they  stood  thus,  silently,  while  the  seconds 
passed.  What  power  was  in  those  words  of 
might  to  bring  a  sudden  hush  upon  both  hearts, 
and  to  change  the  sunshine  into  the  awesome, 
beautiful  light  of  another  world?  Something 
deeper,  nobler,  purer  than  they  stirred  those 
two  souls,  and  made  them  sacredly,  divinely 
one.  Each  felt  intensely  what  neither  could 
[232] 


Wings 

have  expressed.    Never,  while  life  lasted,  could 
the  witness  of  that  moment  be  forgotten. 

Long  after  her  lover  had  left  her  Milly  sat  in 
the  garden,  her  face  half  hidden  in  the  roses, 
with  the  bees  still  booming  around  the  syringas, 
and  the  sky  growing  bluer  and  bluer  in  the  heat 
of  noon.  She  heard  the  choir  boys  singing  now 
in  the  little  churchyard  near  by  as  they  marched 
around  the  open  grave, 

"Brief  life  is  here  our  portion, 

Brief  sorrow,  shortlived  care, 
The  life  that  knows  no  ending, 

The  tearless  life,  is  there. 
Oh  happy  retribution, 

Short  toil,  eternal  rest! 
For  mortals  and  for  sinners, 

A  mansion  with  the  blest." 

The  words  brought  her  no  realization  of  the 
shortness  of  human  life,  of  inevitable  sorrow, 
of  impending  care,  and  no  remembrance  of  the 
dead  pauper  child,  or  of  the  open  grave — they 
only  served  to  add  to  the  fullness  of  her  bliss 
the  thought  that  after  all  this  measureless  hap- 
piness of  earth,  there  was  still  the  joy  of  heaven 
beyond. 

II 

IT  was  only  a  few  weeks  after  their  betrothal 
that  Norton  sailed  for  Australia  on  that 
long   journey    from    which    he    did    not    re- 
turn for  three  years.    The  trip  was  to  make  his 
fortune,  and  fortune  meant  a  home  and  Milly 
[233] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

for  his  own ;  so  neither  rebelled,  and,  indeed,  it 
was  only  intended  at  first  that  he  should  stay 
away  a  year.  In  the  first  ardor  of  romance 
parting  seemed  but  a  little  thing — two  hearts 
like  theirs  could  beat  as  one  with  a  continent 
between  them.  And  love  shows  sweetly  in  dif- 
ferent lights;  the  purple  shadows  of  impending 
separation  gave  it  a  deeper,  richer  glow. 

She  took  a  little  journey  in  from  the  country 
to  see  him  off,  and  they  talked  of  this  before- 
hand as  of  something  quite  festive,  although 
there  proved  to  be  a  bewildering  hurry  and  bus- 
tle about  it  that  mixed  everything  up  in  a  whirl. 
Mrs.  Preston  went  with  her,  and  there  was  a 
disjointed  attempt  at  conversation  on  the  deck 
of  the  steamer  with  some  of  Norton's  friends 
who  had  also  come  to  see  him  off.  and  the  ex- 
amination with  them,  amid  laughter  and  jokes, 
of  Norton's  tiny  stateroom,  and  the  few  mo- 
ments there  when,  lingering  behind,  the  two 
kissed  each  other  good-by,  and,  the  veil  of  pre- 
tense ruthlessly  torn  aside,  Milly  felt  a  sudden 
terrible  spasm  of  heartbreak. 

"I  cannot  let  you  go — I  cannot !"  she  sobbed, 
and  her  lover  had  to  loosen  her  arms  from 
around  his  neck  and  dry  her  eyes  with  his  hand- 
kerchief, whispering  soothing  words,  and  then 
she  must  be  led  out  into  the  glaring  sunlight 
and  turn  her  face  away  from  the  group  of 
friends,  while  her  hand  still  lay  in  Norton's. 
[234] 


Wings 

And  then  the  bell  rang — the  signal  for  parting 
— and  then — do  we  not  know  it  all  ?  The  last 
look  from  the  pier  at  the  beloved  face,  and  then 
the  slow  watching,  watching  until  the  vessel  is 
out  of  sight  and  the  vision  is  filled  with  green 
overlapping  waves,  and  afterwards  the  walk 
back  again  along  the  wharf,  among  bales  and 
vans  of  plunging  horses,  out  into  the  world  of 
dusty  streets  and  houses,  and  the  midsummer 
sights  and  smells,  and  the  busy,  empty  life  that 
is  left. 

Milly  was  grateful  to  Mrs.  Preston  for  not 
talking.  She  blindly  let  herself  be  piloted  any- 
where to  find  that  she  was  at  last  ensconced 
in  a  hurrying  train  proceeding  homeward 
through  a  green  landscape,  with  freshly  cooler 
air  blowing  in  through  the  open  window  to 
soothe  her  aching  head.  When  they  reached 
the  village  in  the  dusk  it  was  Mrs.  Preston  who 
walked  home  with  her  up  the  long  hill  (and, 
oh,  the  going  home  when  the  one  we  love  most 
has  just  left  it)  and  answered  all  the  questions 
that  were  showered  upon  both,  and  afterward 
went  upstairs  to  Milly's  room  and  saw  that  the 
girl  put  on  a  loose  gown  to  rest  in,  and  made 
her  drink  the  cup  of  tea  she  had  brought  up. 
She  gave  Milly  a  little  kiss,  "like  a  peck," 
thought  Milly,  suddenly  alive  to  the  remem- 
brance of  those  other  kisses,  and  after  the  elder 
woman  had  left,  she  slipped  from  the  bed 
[-235  ] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

where  she  had  even  submitted  to  have  her  feet 
covered,  and  went  over  to  the  window  and  knelt 
down  by  it  with  her  head  on  the  sill  almost  in 
the  branches  of  the  maple  tree  through  which 
she  could  see  the  moon  rising  in  golden  quiet. 
He  was  looking  at  the  same  moon  now,  and 
the  Lord  was  watching  between  them.  She 
pressed  the  ring  to  her  lips,  she  pressed  it  to 
her  bosom — the  ring  that  made  her  his — joy, 
flooded  back  upon  her  with  the  thought.  She 
had  forgotten  that  she  could  speak  to  him 
still,  that  she  could  write. 

Oh,  quick,  quick,  lose  not  a  moment;  it  was 
treachery  to  have  a  thought  in  her  soul  and  he 
not  know  it !  Down  on  her  knees  in  the  moon- 
light she  wrote,  and  wrote,  and  wrote,  all  that 
she  never  could  have  said — her  very  heart. 

She  woke  to  joy  the  next  morning,  stil  in 
this  consciousness  of  new-found  power,  and 
with  a  high  ideal  of  the  life  before  her.  She 
was  to  grow  and  grow  that  she  might  be  wor- 
thy of  him — that  she  might  help  him  grow  to 
be  worthy  of  the  highest.  Every  minute  of  the 
day  she  could  live  for  him,  just  as  in  every  min- 
ute of  the  day  he  was  living  for  her.  She  went 
about  her  daily  tasks  with  renewed  energy,  be- 
cause he  was  thinking  of  her  while  she  per- 
formed them.  Even  during  little  Letty  Ste- 
vens's  tedious  music  lesson  she  smiled,  think- 
ing how  she  would  write  him  that  the  child's 
[236] 


Wings 

halting  five-finger  exercise  counted  itself  out  to 
her  in  the  words,  "How  I  love  you,  how  I  love 
you,  how  I  love  you,  how  I  love  you,  dear!" 

She  had  a  little  note  from  him  by  the  pilot 
boat,  written  a  few  hours  after  they  had  parted; 
how  little  it  seemed  after  all  she  had  thought 
and  felt  in  this  twenty-four  hours!  But  it 
made  the  color  rise  in  her  soft  cheeks,  and  she 
cried  over  it  and  wore  it  next  her  bosom  by 
day  and  laid  it  under  her  pillow  by  night.  For 
many  long  weeks  it  was  the  only  message  from 
him  that  she  had  to  feed  on.  The  mail  does 
not  come  quickly  from  Australia.  She  had  sent 
off  pages  and  pages  to  him  in  the  two  or  three 
months  before  his  first  letter  came,  and  it  was 
much  longer  before  she  had  an  answer  to  hers. 
How  she  studied  those  letters — simple,  almost 
boyish  effusions — full  of  wondering  pride  in 
those  that  she  wrote  to  him. 

"Why,  you  are  a  real  poetess,  Milly;  I  don't 
see  how  you  manage  to  think  of  such  things.  I 
wish  I  had  been  thinking  of  you  at  the  time 
you  speak  of,  but  I'm  afraid  that  must  have 
been  when  I  was  staying  at  Jackson's,  and  he 
and  Blessington  and  I  played  cards  every  even- 
ing; awfully  poor  luck  I  had,  too.  I  suppose 
I  must  have  been  thinking  of  you,  after  all,  and 
that's  what  made  me  play  so  badly,  don't  you 
believe  it?  No,  I  don't  do  much  reading  out 
here;  you'll  have  to  do  the  reading  for  both  of 
[237] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

us,  and  you  can  tell  it  all  to  me  when  I  get 
home.  When  I  get  home.  Oh,  Milly !  I  can't 
write  about  it  as  you  do,  but  I'm  working  for 
my  sweet,  sweet  girl  with  all  the  strength  I've 
got." 

The  girl  bloomed  as  she  never  had  before 
with  this  quickening  of  her  soul.  The  days 
were  so  full  of  duties;  her  music  scholars,  the 
household  matters,  in  which  she  helped  her 
widowed  aunt,  the  two  young  cousins  to  be 
looked  after,  her  reading,  and,  when  she  could 
attend  them,  the  weekday  afternoon  prayers  at 
the  little  church  where  she  sometimes,  with  the 
sexton,  represented  all  Mr.  Preston's  congrega- 
tion. Milly's  people  were  of  the  Congrega- 
tional faith,  but  Norton  and  she  had  gone  to  St. 
John's  together.  People  found  fault  with  Mr. 
Preston — a  rather  dull  man  with  impassive 
wooden  features — because  he  had  no  variety  of 
expression;  he  read  service  and  sermon  in  a 
low  monotonous  voice  which,  however,  grew 
to  have  a  soothing  charm  for  Milly.  Why  need 
anyone  express  anything  ?  It  was  all  in  herself 
— other  people's  expression  only  jarred.  Those 
few  moments  in  the  half  light  of  the  empty 
church  gave  a  sense  of  peace  that  was  an  actual 
physical  rest,  undisturbed  by  the  personality 
of  others.  She  was  even  guilty  of  slipping 
from  the  church  afterwards  to  avoid  Mr.  Pres- 
ton's perfunctory  handshake. 
[238] 


Wings 

Then,  after  each  quickly-passing  day,  came 
the  long  evening  when  in  her  little  white  room 
she  wrote  to  him — wrote  to  Norton,  her  own, 
own  lover.  Ah,  what  fire  there  can  be  in  the 
veins  of  a  little  Puritan  girl ! 

So  the  swift  winter  passed  and  the  spring 
came  around  again,  and  he  had  not  returned. 

Then  came  hours  when  the  sense  of  separa- 
tion began  to  press  more  heavily  upon  her, 
when  the  soft  breeze  wearied  her  and  the  com- 
mon roadside  flowers  brought  tears  to  her 
eyes — especially  when  the  Australian  mail  was 
long  delayed.  It  was  in  a  mood  of  this  kind 
that  she  went  one  day  to  see  Mrs.  Preston, 
whose  sharp  features  relaxed  at  the  sight  of 
her.  Mrs.  Preston  was  sitting  in  the  front 
parlor  by  the  window,  with  her  sleeves  rolled 
up  a  little,  and  a  gingham  apron  tied  around 
her  waist,  beating  up  eggs  in  a  large  bowl. 

"Come  in,"  she  called  cheerfully  to  Milly. 
"I  just  saw  Mrs.  Furniss  go  past;  she  looked 
as  if  she  thought  I  was  committing  one  of  the 
seven  deadly  sins  when  she  discovered  that  I 
was  beating  my  eggs  in  here.  The  aborigines 
consider  a  parlor  a  sacred  thing,  you  know.  It's 
the  pleasantest  place  in  the  whole  house  this 
morning,  and  this  lilac  bush  is  budding.  It's 
spring  again,  for  certain." 

"Yes,"  said  Milly  listlessly. 

"I'm  making  custard  for  dessert  to-morrow; 
[239] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

the  bishop's  coming.  He  always  says,  'Mrs. 
Preston,  it's  such  a  relief  to  reach  your  house 
and  get  sponge  cake  and  syllabub,  instead  of  re- 
lays of  pie!'  You  know  the  poor,  dear  man 
has  the  dyspepsia  terribly,  and  you  New  Eng- 
land people  have  no  mercy  on  him.  I'm  glad 
he's  coming  to-morrow,  it  gives  me  something 
more  to  do;  one  must  work  in  the  spring,  or  die. 
If  this  weather  keeps  on  I'll  get  at  the  garret. 
What  is  the  matter  with  you  this  morning, 
Milly?" 

"I'm  tired,"  said  Milly  with  a  quiver  of  her 
lip. 

"Work." 

"I  have  worked !  I'm  busy  all  the  time,  but 
it  doesn't  do  any  good.  It's  hard  to  have  Nor- 
ton away  for  so  long.  I  can't  help  feeling — " 
she  stopped  a  moment  and  looked  very  hard 
out  of  the  window.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  beginning 
to  get — melancholy  about  it."  She  was  trying 
to  smile,  but  a  bright  tear  fell  in  her  lap. 

"I  don't  think  you're  very  unhappy,"  said 
Mrs.  Preston.  She  put  the  bowl  of  eggs  down 
on  the  table  and  folded  her  thin  arms.  "It's 
the  luxury  of  grief  that  you're  enjoying — part 
of  the  romance.  Be  melancholy — as  you  call 
it — while  you  can." 

"You  are  always  so  cheerful,"  said  Milly 
rather  resentfully. 

"I,  my  dear!  I  don't  dare  to  be  anything 
[240] 


Wings 

else.  I  have  to  be  cheerful,  or — "  She  turned 
a  darkening  face  to  the  budding  lilacs.  "I 
don't  dare  to  think  long  enough  to  be  depressed, 
to  even — remember.  There's  an  awful  abyss 
down  which  I  slip  when  7  get  melancholy;  it's 
the  bottomless  pit.  I  know  it's  there  all  the 
time,  but  I  have  to  pretend  to  myself  that  I'm 
not  near  it,  or  I  get  dragged  under.  I  avoid 
it  like  the  plague!"  A  momentary  spasm  con- 
tracted her  face;  she  added  in  a  lower  tone, 
"Did  you  know  that  I  had  four  children  once? 
They  died  within  a  year." 

"Oh,  you  poor  thing!"  cried  Milly.  She 
reached  forward  and  tried  to  take  one  of  the 
fast-locked  hands  of  the  woman  before  her. 
"Oh,  how  terrible,  how  terrible!  How  did 
you  live?" 

"I  didn't;  all  the  best  part  of  me  went  too, 
this  thing  you  see  here — "  she  stopped,  and  the 
same  shiver  as  before  went  over  her. 

"But  you  have  your  husband,"  said  Milly, 
seeking  about  for  comfort.  A  vision  of  Mr. 
Preston,  stiff,  dull,  formal,  with  his  wooden 
features,  fronted  her  confusingly. 

"Yes,  that's  the  worst  of  it — if  I  only  had 
not  William!" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Preston!"  cried  Milly. 

"I  suppose  it  is  surprising.  After  having 
bored  each  other  for  so  many  years,  we  really 
ought  to  be  very  much  attached,  don't  you 
[341] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

think?  Perhaps  even  you  can  see  how  much 
comfort  I  get  from  William.  If  I  were  an 
article  of  the  Rubric,  instead  of  a  woman — but 
of  course,  that  is  different." 

"But  you  must  have  loved  him  when  you 
were  married,"  cried  Milly,  shocked. 

"Did  I,  dear?  I  loved  something  that  went 
by  his  name,  it  wasn't  William.  There,  don't 
let  us  talk  of  it;  I  find  no  fault.  He  should 
have  been  a  celibate  priest;  I  agree  with  him 
there.  He  has  never  really  cared  for  me,  or  for 
— the  children."  The  spasm  passed  over  her 
face  again.  "Oh,  if  I  did  not  have  him,  if  I 
were  not  tied  to  this  narrow  round  which 
chokes  every  higher  instinct  of  me,  if  I  could 
go  off  somewhere  by  myself,  to  California  or 
Egypt,  or  Cathay — travel,  travel,  travel,  keep 
going  on  and  on,  seeing  something  new  every 
hour,  breathing  freer  every  day,  getting  out 
into  the  great  life  of  the  world !"  She  clenched 
her  hands.  "I  have  given  my  life,  my  aspira- 
tions, the  whole  strength  of  my  being,  to  Wil- 
liam, and  now  I  have  nothing  left — but  Wil- 
liam." 

"You  have  four  children  in  heaven,"  said 
Milly  softly. 

The  elder  woman  broke  down  into  a  fit  of 

weeping  that  seemed  to  rend  her.     Milly  sat 

by,  appalled  at  this  glimpse  of  the  inner  life  of 

two  respectable  married  people.    Later,  as  she 

[242] 


Wings 

was  going  home,  she  met  Mr.  Preston,  his  tall, 
thin  figure  in  its  clerical  garb  silhouetted 
against  the  bright  green  of  the  spring  foliage. 
His  pale  eyes  gazed  solemnly  at  her  as  he  drew 
near  across  the  fields ;  she  felt  that  he  might  be 
murmuring  Credos,  or  even  Aves,  quite  obliv- 
ious of  her  presence.  But  he  reached  the  bars 
in  time  to  let  them  down  for  her,  and  offer  her 
the  handshake  from  which  she  had  been  wont 
to  flee,  and  then  stood  a  moment  as  if  he  would 
have  spoken,  while  she  gazed  at  him  furtively. 
Could  any  woman  put  her  arms  around  that 
stiff  neck  or  kiss  those  thin,  set  lips  ?  Oh,  poor 
Mrs.  Preston !  But  he  was  really  speaking. 

"I  saw  you  in  the  distance  and  I  stopped  to 
pick  these  for  you,"  he  said  in  his  slow,  even 
tone.  It  was  a  little  bunch  of  violets  that  he 
held  out  to  her. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Preston,  thank  you !"  said  Milly  in 
wonder. 

"It  is  a  pleasure  to  me  that  you  attend  our 
services.  If — "  he  paused,  "if  my  daughter 
had  lived  she  would  have  been  your  age — like 
you,  in  her  springtime." 

He  gazed  past  her  solemnly  and  then  taking 
off  his  hat  to  her,  went  on  his  way,  leaving 
Milly  overpowered  with  bewilderment. 

What  did  it  all  mean  ?    Who  was  right,  and 
who  was  wrong?    How  did  people  drift  apart 
after  they  were  married?    A  new  idea  of  the 
1 243 1 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

complexity  of  life  came  to  her,  the  strange  way 
in  which  human  beings  acted  on  each  other, 
drawn,  as  by  magnets,  with  the  differing  forces. 
Marriage  to  her  had  always  presented  a  picture 
of  growth  in  happiness,  growth  in  goodness,  a 
path  upward  together  for  lover  and  beloved. 
She  tried  now  and  for  the  first  time  vainly  to 
recall  if  any  in  her  limited  circle  of  acquaint- 
ance seemed  to  fulfill  these  conditions.  Sor- 
didness,  narrowness,  selfishness,  a  jealous  love 
of  one's  children,  these  stood  revealed  instead 
to  the  casual  eye. 

She  wrote  a  long  page  in  her  journal  letter 
that  night.  His  answer  came  back  at  last.  It 
said:  "Don't  bother  your  head,  dear,  about 
these  things.  You  will  always  be  the  dearest 
girl  in  the  world  to  me,  and  the  purest  and  the 
best;  and  as  for  me,  I  never  forget  that  I'm 
working  for  you,  and  if  that  won't  keep  me 
straight,  nothing  will.  What  do  you  care  about 
those  old  fossils  of  Prestons,  anyhow  ?  You  are 
you,  and  I  am  I,  and  that's  all  I  care  for,  sweet- 
heart." 

The  wealth  of  meaning  with  which  Milly 
freighted  these  honest  lines  it  would  take  pages 
to  chronicle;  perhaps  it  was  partly  on  account 
of  some  words  of  Mrs.  Preston's  which  haunt- 
ed her:  "I  loved  something  that  went  by  his 
name — it  wasn't  William." 

The  clergyman's  family  remained  in  her 
[244] 


Wings 

mind  an  unsolved  problem;  it  was  nearly  a 
month  before  she  went  to  the  rectory  again, 
where  she  found  Mrs.  Preston  "up  to  her  ears," 
as  she  expressed  it,  endeavoring  to  settle  the 
affairs  of  a  poor  family  who  were  preparing 
for  emigration  to  the  West.  Her  snapping 
black  eyes  and  vivacious  mien  showed  thorough 
enjoyment  of  the  task,  to  say  nothing  of  her 
dominant  volubility.  Mr.  Preston,  who  came 
in  from  the  garden  bearing  the  first  strawberry 
solemnly  on  a  gilt  plate  for  his  wife's  accept- 
ance, was  unheeded  until  Milly  directed  atten- 
tion to  him.  He  had  been  waiting,  he  ex- 
plained gravely,  spme  days  for  this  particular 
strawberry  to  ripen.  Mrs.  Preston  said,  "Oh, 
yes,"  and  thereupon  ate  the  fruit  absent-mind- 
edly as  she  went  on  talking,  with  apparently 
no  more  appreciation  of  flavor  than  if  it  had 
been  gutta  percha,  and  quite  ignoring  the  giver. 

Milly  could  not  help  smiling,  but  she  left  the 
house  more  bewildered  than  ever.  Mrs.  Pres- 
ton must  like  her  life  more  than  she  thought 
she  did,  and  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  a  little 
tinge  of  sympathy  for  Mr.  Preston.  Did  peo- 
ple after  all  know  what  they  really  liked — or, 
indeed,  what  they  really  were  ?  The  moods  of 
different  days,  of  different  hours,  what  kind  of 
a  whole  did  they  form  ? 

Her  own  life  seemed  to  be  all  question  in 
these  days,  to  which  nobody  gave  the  answer. 
[2451 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

Thus  the  second  year  stole  on,  and  Norton's 
home-coming  appeared  to  grow  no  nearer.  The 
photograph  which  he  sent  her  startled  by  its  un- 
likeness  to  her  thought  of  him ;  those  were  the 
eyes  that  were  to  look  into  hers  again  some  day, 
those  the  lips  that  were  to  kiss  hers.  After  a 
while  by  much  poring  over  it,  the  picture 
looked  to  her  any  way  she  pleased. 

"Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder" — 
possibly,  and  possibly  not  always  fonder  of  the 
unseen  beloved,  but  of  one's  own  personality, 
projected  into  the  suitable  position. 

But  if  any  moment  of  serious  doubt  came, 
the  remembrance  of  the  betrothal  in  the  gar- 
den quenched  it.  There  was  always  that  to 
fall  back  upon.  Milly  lived  that  over  again, 
and  again,  and  again,  never  without  the  solemn 
rush  of  feeling  that  had  accompanied  the 
pledge  with  God  for  their  witness — "never  to 
be  forgotten,  never  to  be  denied" — the  latter 
words  Norton  had  himself  used  in  a  letter  to 
her  once,  a  letter  from  which  she  never  parted. 

With  love  came  at  last  the  teaching  of  death 
to  Milly,  and  she  went  down  into  the  shadows 
and  cried  out  affrighted.  All  props  were  torn 
away  from  her,  and  she  stood  alone  trembling, 
reaching  out  on  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left. 
"I  had  not  thought  it  meant  this,"  she  wrote 
piteously.  "I  believe  in  God,  and  in  heaven, 
why,  then,  should  this  desolation  touch  me? 
[246] 


Wings 

Words — words  that  I  have  said  all  my  life  and 
believed  in,  mean  nothing  to  me.  I  believe  in 
them  now,  but  they  mean  nothing.  I  can't 
make  anything  real  but  death,  not  even  your 
love !  Oh,  help  me,  tell  me  that  I  shall  not  die 
alone,  that  you  will  go  with  me,  tell  me  that  you 
are  not  afraid;  help  me,  Norton.  You  must 
know  something  to  make  it  all  better !" 

She  had  gained  some  peace  before  his  reply 
reached  her — a  sense  of  the  eternal  Fatherhood 
that  pervaded  the  unseen  world  as  well  as  the 
one  she  walked  and  lived  and  loved  in  now — 
a  protection  that  was  a  rest  and  brought  light 
into  the  sunshine  once  more.  But  he  wrote, 

"Milly,  if  you  love  me,  don't  send  me  any 
more  letters  like  the  last.  To  think  of  such 
things  would  drive  me  mad.  I  can't  think  of 
death.  It's  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  work  for  a 
living,  and  try  and  be  worthy  of  you,  and  I'll 
have  to  leave  the  rest  to  the  good  Lord,  I  ex- 
pect. I'll  be  coming  home  some  day  before  you 
know  it — drop  me  a  line  to  tell  me  how  you'd 
feel  if  you  saw  me  walking  in  just  after  you  get 
this." 

If  there  was  a  graver  look  in  Milly's  eyes 
than  had  been,  there  was  also  a  sweeter  depth. 
The  lines  around  her  mouth  were  very  gentle. 
She  did  not  talk  much.  It  was  the  third  sum- 
mer of  the  separation;  she  no  longer  tried  to 
solve  the  problem  of  the  Prestons,  but  accepted 
[247] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

the  fact  that  she  stood  a  little  nearer  to  each  of 
them  than  anyone  else  did.  People  said  she 
was  a  good  listener,  but  although  she  seemed  to 
give  a  quiet  attention  to  them,  it  was  the  voice 
across  the  sea  that  she  was  always  listening  for. 
The  letters  came  now  so  full  of  matters  and 
people  that  she  knew  nothing  of;  the  whole 
burden  of  them  for  her  lay  in  the  few  loving 
sentences  that  began  and  ended  the  pages.  Had 
she  ever  had  a  lover  ?  It  was  so  long  ago,  and 
for  so  short  a  time !  Yet  at  last  she  had  word 
that  he  was  coming  home. 

It  was  after  this  news  had  reached  her,  and 
nearly  three  years  from  the  day  of  the  reveal- 
ing of  love  in  the  garden,  that  the  second  rev- 
elation was  given  her.  This  time  it  was  of 
immortality. 

She  was  kneeling  in  the  church  during  the 
afternoon  service;  the  church  was  almost 
empty.  She  had  had  a  singularly  calm  spirit 
all  day,  and  as  she  knelt  in  the  dim  aisle,  her 
gaze  directed  upward  to  the  stained  glass  win- 
dow in  one  of  the  arches  of  the  ceiling,  she 
was  not  praying,  she  was  only  peaceful.  The 
window  was  partly  open,  so  that  a  glimpse  of 
pale  blue  sky  slanted  through  it  with  the  after- 
noon sunshine.  And  as  she  gazed,  not  con- 
sciously, her  spirit  went  from  her  and  mingled 
with  that  sunlight,  becoming  one  with  it,  and 
in  a  rapture  of  buoyancy,  of  radiance,  of  ex- 
[248] 


Wings 

ultant  immortality.  It  had  in  it  no  acknowl- 
edged perception  of  God,  no  conviction  of  sin, 
no  so-called  "experience";  it  was  simply  life 
eternal,  utterly  free  from  the  body,  the  spirit 
divested  of  the  hampering  bonds  of  the  flesh. 
The  wonder  of  it,  the  joy  of  it — yet  the  won- 
derful and  joyful  familiarity  with  it,  as  of 
something  known  always,  that  had  been  only 
forgotten  for  a  little  while,  and  was  now  re- 
membered; and  beyond  and  through  all  some- 
thing indescribable.  One  cannot  translate  the 
meaning  of  life  into  words  that  belong  to  mor- 
tality. 

Milly  bowed  her  head  and  the  light  closed 
over  her  and  her  spirit  came  back  to  her  body 
once  more.  She  neither  wept  nor  trembled; 
like  Mary  of  old  she  marveled  and  was  silent. 
She  thought  she  would  write  it  all  to  Norton, 
but  she  could  not;  she  thought  to  tell  him  when 
he  came,  but  she  did  not.  She  never  had  the 
revelation  again,  but  like  the  first  it  could  never 
be  forgotten  nor  denied. 

Ill 

EY  were  married  at  St  John's  a  couple 
of  months  after  his  return.    Mr.  Preston 
united  them  in  the  bonds  of  holy  matrimony 
with    his    still    unvarying    wooden    gravity, 
through  which,  however,  Milly  was  able  to  dis- 
1249] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

cern  some  faint,  limited  attempt  at  warmth, 
and  Mrs.  Preston  folded  her  in  her  arms  after- 
wards with  a  scoffing  fondness  that  rather 
troubled  the  bride  when  she  thought  of  it.  She 
did  not  want  to  think  now  of  spoiled  lives. 
Something  in  Mrs.  Preston's  manner  implied — 
could  it  be  pity? 

It  had  been  delightful  after  three  years  of 
maiden  dreaming  and  shadowy  aspiration  to  be 
carried  forcibly  out  of  them  into  a  clear,  cheer- 
ful, masculine  territory  where  things  seemed  to 
be  exactly  what  they  were.  The  charm  of  hav- 
ing a  lover  who  was  almost  a  stranger,  yet 
whom  it  was  taken  for  granted  must  be  both 
dear  and  familiar,  was  nearly  too  bewildering. 
She  laughed  at  absurd  jokes,  was  betrayed  into 
demonstrative  foolishness,  and  could  scarcely 
believe  in  her  own  metamorphosis.  She  was 
in  a  state  of  suppressed  excitement  which  must 
be  happiness. 

"I  hardly  knew  you  when  I  saw  you  coming 
in  the  gate,"  she  confessed  one  day  soon  after 
his  arrival.  "Think  of  it !  I  ran  and  hid." 

"You  did  not  hide  long,"  he  answered  grave- 
ly, taking  a  hairpin  from  her  smooth  locks. 
"Let  your  hair  down,  I  want  to  see  if  it  has 
grown." 

"Norton!  how  silly.  Are  you  always  like 
this?" 

"Certainly." 

[  250  ] 


Wings 

"But  I  want  to  tell  you  of  so  many  things 
that  I  could  not  write  when  you  were  away. 
Oh,  Norton,  the  years  have  been  short,  yet  they 
were  so  very,  very  long,  too !  There  is  so  much 
I  have  to  confess  to  you — how  shall  I  ever 
begin?" 

"Don't  try,"  he  answered  laconically. 
"Leave  all  that  time  out,  Milly,  I  hate  it.  We'll 
begin  fresh  now."  He  drew  a  long  breath.  "It 
was  a  hard,  coarse  life  out  there — you  couldn't 
even  understand  it,  sweetheart.  But  one  thing 
I  can  tell — "  he  turned  around  and  faced  her 
with  steadfast  gaze — "I  can  look  you  straight 
in  the  eyes,  dear,  and  not  be  ashamed." 

"Why,  of  course!"  said  Milly. 

And  so  the  new  life  began.  A  few  months 
after  the  wedding  they  went  to  live  in  a  narrow 
street  in  the  great  city,  away  from  all  the  dear 
lovely  hills  and  fields  and  sky  that  had  hitherto 
made  Milly's  world.  She  was  surprised  to  find 
that  the  dreary  outlook  on  brick  and  stone  af- 
fected her  like  a  physical  blow,  and  that  she 
missed  familiar  voices  strangely.  She  had 
often  and  often  thought  that  she  would  be 
willing  to  live  with  Norton  in  a  desert,  and 
forego  all  other  companionship  than  his,  which 
necessarily  must  be  satisfying.  Was  it  ?  Grad- 
ually, very  gradually,  but  surely,  a  sinking  of 
the  heart,  a  gnawing  homesickness  began  to 
take  possession  of  her — the  homesickness  of 
[251] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

one  transplanted  in  body  and  mind  to  an 
alien  soil;  a  feeling  fiercely  combated,  fiercely 
denied,  yet  conquering  insidiously.  To  many 
women — to  most  women,  perhaps — there  is 
no  medium  between  worshiping  and  delicately 
despising  the  man  they  love.  They  must  either 
look  up  or  down;  anything  but  a  level  view, 
with  clear  eyes  meeting,  and  the  honest  admis- 
sion: Dear  friend,  my  insufficiency  balances 
thine.  What  thou  art  not  to  me,  that  other 
thing  I  am  not  to  thee. 

But  it  is  torture  not  to  be  able  to  look  up! 
The  sense  of  superiority  is  only  a  sting. 

Milly  took  life  with  intense  earnestness.  She 
could  not  understand  Norton's  light,  jocular 
way  of  looking  at  things;  he  cared  for  nothing 
"improving,"  he  simply  wanted  recreation.  He 
loved  her — yes,  as  much,  she  thought,  sadly, 
as  he  could  have  loved  any  woman,  but  not,  oh, 
not  as  she  loved!  She  missed  so  much,  so 
much !  Each  day  brought  a  subtle  shock  of  dis- 
appointment with  it,  a  miserable  feeling  of  loss. 
What  could  she  do  about  it  ?  She  tried  vainly 
to  adjust  her  vision  to  the  man's  point  of  view. 
Her  husband  seemed  to  her  shallow,  coarse, 
with  no  high  standard  of  honor.  It  must  be 
her  mission  to  elevate  him. 

The  more  unsatisfied  her  mind  became,  the 
more  her  heart  endeavored  to  make  up  for  it. 
"You  are  not  what  I  dreamed — but  kiss  me,  kiss 
[252] 


Wings 

me  more  passionately  that  I  may  forget  it!'* 
was  the  continued  inner  cry.  But  kisses  do  not 
grow  more  passionateunder  the  insistent  claim. 

She  prayed  for  him  with  a  hysterical  uplift- 
ing of  the  spirit,  followed  by  fathomless  ex- 
haustion and  depression.  He  was  always  very, 
very  kind  to  her  when  she  wept — and  very  glad 
to  get  away. 

She  relapsed  into  an  obedient  endurance,  a 
patient  and  uncomplaining  disapproval. 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  in  him  of  the 
man  she  had  married  except  a  certain  sweet 
boyishness  that  had  always  been  one  of  his 
charms,  and  which  showed  at  times  through 
everything,  and  a  bright,  yet  delicate  kindness 
which  other  people  liked,  although  to  her  it  had 
no  depth.  Sometimes  she  felt  a  little  envious 
of  his  ease  with  others. 

"How  you  talked  to  Mrs.  Catherwood  to- 
night," she  said  one  evening  after  the  guests 
had  gone.  "You  quite  monopolized  her.  I 
wonder  what  she  thought  of  you !" 

"Oh,  that  was  all  right!"  he  answered  some- 
what absently.  Then  he  looked  up  with  a  smile. 
"What  do  you  think?  I  found  that  she  came 
from  the  town  I  used  to  live  in.  I  knew  her 
sister  well.  We  went  back  over  old  times." 

"You  never  talk  to  me  about  them." 

"You — oh,  that's  different;  you  wouldn't 
be  interested,  dear."  He  shook  his  head  with  a 
[253] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

kind  of  rueful  amusement.  "I  always  feel 
when  I  tell  you  of  such  things  that  you  are 
wondering  how  I  could  enjoy  them.  It  came 
sort  of  easy  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Catherwood — she 
seemed  to  understand;  some  people  do  make 
you  feel  that  way,  you  know."  He  looked  up 
a  little  sadly,  and  then  came  over  to  his  wife 
and  kissed  her.  "You're  a  saint,  Milly,  and 
saints  are  not  expected  to  take  stock  in  vain 
jestings.  You  have  to  be  good  for  both  of  us, 
you  know." 

Milly  flushed  angrily.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't 
say  such  things — you  take  such  a  low  view! 
And  I  wanted  you  to  see  something  of  Pro- 
fessor Stearns  to-night,  he  is  such  a  fine  man, 
so  thoroughly  high-minded,  so  firm  in  principle, 
he  never  gives  way  an  inch  in  what  he  thinks 
is  right.  How  people  dislike  him  for  it!  It's 
really  splendid." 

Norton  looked  humorous,  but  discreetly  held 
his  peace. 

"I  tell  you,  Jordan,"  he  said  one  day  to  a 
friend,  half  sadly,  half  jestingly,  "my  wife 
wants  me  to  be  a  good  woman,  to  like  all  the 
things  she  likes,  and  to  do  all  the  things  she 
does.  I  know  she  mourns  over  me  every  day 
of  her  life.  I  suppose  it's  a  hopeless  job  for 
both  of  us.  I  never  was  anything  but  a  com- 
monplace sort  of  fellow,  not  near  good  enough 
for  her." 

[254] 


Wings 

"That  is  the  proper  frame  of  mind,  old  fel- 
low," said  his  friend,  and  they  went  on  riding 
together  in  silence. 

To  what  end  had  the  higher  life  been  Mil- 
ly's?  In  five  years  she  and  Norton  had  been 
drifting  slowly  but  surely  ever  further  apart. 
Had  companionship  with  her  elevated  him? 
Impossible  not  to  see  that  he  had  deteriorated, 
that  the  lax  hold  on  former  ideals  had  lapsed 
entirely ! 

Can  any  human  soul  thrive  in  an  atmosphere 
of  doubt  ? 

It  was  wheel  this  knowledge  of  further  sep- 
aration lay  heaviest  upon  her,  that  word  came 
to  Milly  one  morning  in  the  bright  sunlight 
that  Norton  had  been  arrested  for  embezzle- 
ment and  was  in  jail.  Her  heart  stood  still. 
This,  then,  was  what  she  had  been  foreboding 
all  along;  the  instantaneous  conviction  of  his 
guilt  was  the  cruel  blow.  Oh,  the  awful,  aw- 
ful wrench  of  the  heart,  when  disgrace  lays  its 
hand  on  one  we  love !  Death  seems  an  honest, 
joyful  thing  in  comparison.  Yet  she  could 
think  of  a  thousand  extenuations  for  him — 
she  found  herself  yearning  over  him  as  she 
might  have  done  over  the  children  that  had 
never  been  hers. 

She  prayed  all  the  way  to  jail.  How  often 
she  had  read  of  similar  journeys — the  prisoner 
was  always  "sitting  on  the  side  of  his  bed,"  in 
[255] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

the  cell.  Norton  was  sitting  on  the  side  of  his 
bed;  his  face  was  turned  away  as  she  came  in. 
She  sat  down  beside  him  and  took  his  hand. 
"Norton!"  she  said  and  yet  again,  "Norton!" 
and  he  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"I  knew  you  would  come,"  he  said,  "and  I 
knew — you  would  think — I  had  done  it." 

"Oh,  Norton,  Norton!  Say  only  that  you 
did  not,  and  I  will  believe  you." 

"You  will  believe — if  I  tell  you — that  I  am 
not — a  thief?  What  would  a  thief's  word  be 
good  for,  Milly  ?  Do  I  have  to  tell  such  a  thing 
to  my  own  wife?  Why,  even  that  poor  Irish 
woman  you  can  hear  crying  in  the  next  cell  be- 
lieves in  her  husband;  you  should  have  heard 
her  talking  before  you  came — and  he's  a  brute." 

Milly  gasped  painfully,  the  tears  were  run- 
ning down  her  cheeks.  "You  know  you  always 
thought  some  things  honest  that  I  did  not — 
some  transactions — we  have  often  talked — how 
could  I  tell—" 

"You  had  your  ideas  and  I  had  mine,"  he 
interrupted.  "It's  mighty  hard  to  conduct 
business  on  abstract  principles — perhaps — I 
don't  deny  it !  My  ways  weren't  always  what 
they  ought  to  have  been.  But  this  is  stealing. 
It  somehow  kills  me  to  think  that  you — "  he 
stopped  short  with  a  gesture,  and  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands. 

Milly  longed  to  put  her  arms  around  him,  to 
[256] 


Wings 

kiss  the  hands  that  hid  him  from  her,  to  do  any- 
thing to  show  her  love  and  grief,  and  her  faith 
in  him,  but  she  did  not  dare.  This  was  her  hus- 
band, but  she  did  not  dare. 

He  spoke  quite  calmly  after  a  few  minutes. 
"You  had  better  go  back  to  the  house  now. 
My  arrest  was  all  a  stupid  blunder;  I  sent  for 
Catherwood  at  once,  and  he  saw  Forrest.  They 
are  on  the  right  track  and  I  will  be  set  free  as 
soon  as  possible,  to-morrow,  probably;  the 
charge  is  to  be  withdrawn.  And  don't  feel  so 
badly,  dear,  I  suppose  it's  all  my  fault  that  you 
have  never  believed  in  me  since  we  were  mar- 
ried— for  you  never  have,  Milly."  He  stooped 
and  kissed  her  good-by,  saying  gently,  "You 
must  go  now,  dear." 

Three  days  after  that  he  came  home  very  ill. 
All  that  Milly  had  been  longing  to  say  to  him, 
all  that  she  had  been  longing  to  hear,  must  wait 
until  the  morrow — until  the  next  week — until 
the  next  month;  and  then,  and  then,  could  it 
be?  Until  the  next  life! 

He  was  so  very  ill  from  the  beginning  that 
there  was  nothing  else  to  be  considered;  for 
the  first  time  her  own  wishes  and  feelings  were 
as  naught.  In  the  delirium  he  did  not  even 
know  her.  But  there  came  a  time  before  the 
end  when  she  was  startled  as  she  sat  by  him  in 
the  twilight,  holding  his  wasted  hand  to  see 
his  conscious  eyes  fixed  upon  her  through  the 
[257] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

shadows.  Her  own  responded  with  a  depth 
of  piteous  eager  love  in  them  as  she  bent  closer 
to  him.  Still  the  eyes  gazed  at  her — what,  oh, 
what  were  they  saying? 

"Darling"  she  whispered. 

His  lips  did  not  move,  but  the  fingers  of  the 
hand  which  lay  in  hers  felt  feebly  for  some- 
thing— touched  the  golden  circle  on  her  finger, 
and  held  it  as  if  contented  at  last. 

And  still  the  eyes — 

It  was  again  the  moment  of  their  betrothal, 
and  God  was  with  them  as  in  the  garden. 

"  •  I  ATE  in  the  moonlight,  the  tender 
,  I  A  moonlight  of  June,  Milly  sat  alone 
by  a  grave.  The  soft  night  wind  touched 
her  face,  the  smell  of  countless  budding  flowers 
was  around  her.  It  was  again  the  beautiful 
youth  of  the  year,  the  time  of  love,  and  for  her 
youth  and  love  were  done.  Such  a  little  while 
ago  it  seemed  since  she  had  been  looking  for- 
ward to  it,  and  now  it  was  done.  Oh,  what 
did  it  all  mean,  the  love,  the  yearning,  the  striv- 
ing, that  it  should  end  in  such  bitter  loss;  how 
had  they  made  such  a  failure  of  marriage — 
marriage,  that  could  have  been  so  beautiful! 
Why  was  it  that  that  last  moment  with  Norton 
had  been  the  first  to  show  it  to  her? 

In    the    utter    solitude    she    thought    and 
thought,  with  strained  brow,  with  hands  tightly 
[258] 


Wings 

clasped.  She  searched  her  soul  as  if  it  were  the 
judgment  day.  Death  held  up  the  lamp  by 
which  she  saw  her  husband  at  last  clearly — all 
that  he  was,  all  that  he  might  have  been  if  she 
had  not  used  her  higher  thought  to  build  up  a 
barrier  between  them.  The  sense  of  his 
maimed  life,  the  loss  of  all  the  joy  and  trust 
there  might  have  been,  pierced  her  to  the  heart. 
His  nature,  lower  than  hers,  had  yet  held  in  it 
the  capacity  to  be  more  than  hers — had  seen 
more  clearly,  and  had  been  more  generous. 
Could  it  be  that,  after  all,  she  who  had  loved  so 
much  had  not  loved  enough? 

Oh,  what  was  it  that  was  expected  of  love; 
to  desire  utterly  the  good  of  the  best  beloved, 
the  development  along  lines  where  one  cannot 
follow,  on  which  one  has  no  claim,  which 
touch  no  answering  chord  of  self — no  one  poor 
human  being  can  love  perfectly,  as  perfectly  as 
that !  If  one  were  only  God — 

But  there  was  God. 

Milly  raised  her  head,  and  the  moonlight  fell 
on  her  face. 

"Oh,  far  beyond  this  poor  horizon's  bound" 
shone  the  answer  to  all  her  thought.  The  capa- 
bility of  endless  growth,  the  mating  of  two 
souls  beyond  the  spheres  and  through  all  ages 
was  the  message  of  high  emprise  that  called 
her  like  the  voice  of  a  star.  With  the  heart  of 
love,  with  the  wings  of  immortality  came  the 
[259] 


Little  Stories  of  Married  Life 

third  revelation,  reaching  to  infinite  depths  and 
heights,  revealing  the  ineffable  space  where  self 
is  lost  in  the  divine.  The  secret  of  life  and 
death,  of  loss  and  reprisal,  of  the  seen  and  the 
unseen,  of  thou  and  I,  was  there  in  the  oneness 
of  all  that  our  mortal  sense  divides.  Oh,  the 
great,  free,  beautiful  vision! 

In  the  long  silence — in  the  blowing  of  the 
night  wind — when  the  clouds  veiled  the  moon 
— spirit  to  spirit  she  stood  with  her  beloved  at 
last,  as  never,  oh,  never  before  upon  this  earth, 
and  repeated  aloud  once  more  the  words  of 
eternal  might: 

"The  Lord  watch  between  thee  and  me — 
between  thee  and  me — when  we  are  parted  the 
one  from  the  other." 


THE  END 


[260] 


RECENT 
PUBLICATIONS 


lips  &  Co. 


New  York 

1901-1908 


38?  if.  &.  Crocfeett 


Author  of  "The  Stickit  Minister,"  "The  Black  Douglas,' 
"The  Firebrand,"  etc. 


THE   BANNER  OF   BLUE 


J.N  The  Banner  of  Blue  Mr.  Crockett  offers  a 
new  version  of  that  most  wonderful  of  parables, 
the  prodigal  son.  Against  the  sombre  back- 
ground of  the  Disruption  Period  in  Scotland  he 
draws  with  a  master  hand  two  brilliantly  colored 
love-stories,  the  one  intense  to  its  tragic  end, 
the  other  delightful  in  its  quaint  Scotch  humor. 
The  character-drawing  possesses  in  particular 
the  quality  of  nearness  and  reality,  and  he  who 
reads  must  suffer  with  the  proud  Lord  of  Gower 
in  the  downfall  of  his  idolized  son,  laugh  with 
Veronica  Caesar  in  her  philosophical  bearing  of 
domestic  burdens  and  tyranny,  and  share  with 
John  Glendonwyn  his  love  for  the  will-o'-the- 
wisp  sweetheart,  Faerlie  Glendenning.  That 
part  of  the  story  dealing  with  the  separation 
of  church  and  state  calls  forth  not  only  the 
strongest  but  the  most  picturesque  traits  of  the 
Scottish  people. 

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